


Six Dark Crowns

by mermaidia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya is a bitch but what else is new, Badass Sansa, Bran can walk correctly, Gen, Jon and Robb are Twins, Naturalist Rickon, Oracle Bran, Poisoner Jon, Poisoner Sansa, RICKON IS GAYYYYYYYY, Theon probably slips on air and impales himself, Two Dark Reigns, War gifted Arya, War gifted Robb, and Ramsay takes credit for it, everyone dies, if you haven’t died by now you’re just being unprofessional, it’s basically Oprah-style handing out deaths at this point, jon straight up fuckin dies, one dark throne, they all kill each other, three dark crowns - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-10-05 02:41:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 24,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17316524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mermaidia/pseuds/mermaidia
Summary: A king or queen is crowned and takes a consort. They have as many children as they want and then retire to Essos to live out a happy, carefree life. As soon as the eldest child reaches eighteen, the siblings display their gifts — war, naturalist, poisoner, sight, or elemental — to Westeros. Then the Ascension Year is underway and the siblings perform in a brutal fight to the death until there is one king or queen standing.This Ascension Year should be no different. The siblings Robb, Jon, Sansa, Arya, Bran and Rickon all must fight for their crowns. If they hesitate it means certain death. But even if they succeed, the time of kings and queens may come to an end.





	1. Robb I

Robb was supposed to be training. Robb didn’t want to train. Instead he sat in his freezing room, sketching a maid with long dark hair staring out a window, much like he was doing.

He cast a longing look out of his window. The Eyrie sprawled beneath him, the towers and roofs overlapping until they abruptly cut off at a cliff.

He could technically jump from his window down to the roof below — the fall wasn’t enough to kill him, but he could seriously injure something — but he didn’t want to risk it. Especially since his relatives were no doubt looking for him.

“Rooooooooobb!” Robin shrieked from downstairs. His voice was so loud Robb could hear him through the cobbles. Robb sighed and rubbed his temples. Robin was constantly bugging him. “Play with me!” He would beg. “Play knights and dragon! Play hide and seek! Play swords with me!”

Spoiler alert. Robb never, ever wanted to play with Robin.

Robin was Robb’s protector, Jon Arryn’s, only son and heir. He was to be treated like royalty at all times, even though Robb was the king here. Robb wasn’t even supposed to be playing with Robin today — he was supposed to be training. Yet here he was ditching both of them.

Robb looked back down at the sketch. The girl in the picture was very realistic — easily Robb’s best work without reference. Her eyes glistened with sadness and her dark hair tumbled about her shoulders. Robb unconsciously wondered what it sounded like if she could laugh.

“ROBB!” Robin’s voice suddenly was much too loud in Robb’s ears as he swept open the door. Robb winced. He thought the private room of an unused servant’s quarters could be isolated enough, but the Eyrie was only so big.

“Robin,” Robb said through his teeth. “I can’t play right now. I’m busy.”

“Doing what?” The boy chirped, skipping right up to Robb. “Drawing pretty girls?” Before Robb could hide the sketch, Robin seized it and examined it. “Wow. She’s pretty. Who is she? You haven’t seen a girl your age since your nameday, and that was ages ago.”

Robin spoke the truth. Nearly a year ago, at his nameday tourney, he had met a few beautiful girls, but their faces and names had long faded from his mind. Now his nameday was coming up, the day of the Quickening. It was tradition for the Quickening to take place the day of the eldest king or queen’s eighteenth birthday. That was what Robb was supposed to be training for. He would be leaving in a few days.

“I just drew it from my imagination,” Robb said, suddenly flashing out a hand and grabbing the sketch back. His war gift came in handy when dealing with Robin; it meant that he could move much faster than the giftless boy. Everyone in the Eyrie seemingly had an unfair advantage over him — Lord Arryn was an elemental of the winds and snow, Lady Lysa was a naturalist with no familiar but extravagant growing powers. She could make the tiniest bud grow into a rose bush in a matter of seconds.

Robin, the spawn of them two, was giftless. They had trained him in everything: they had told him to light candles, make grass shake, cause ripples in glasses of water. They had put dozens of dead flowers in front of him. They had told him to throw knives with his mind. They had given him the lightest of poisons and he was sick for a week. They even attempted to see if he could have visions of anything. But it was no use. The boy was a dud.

“Yeah, sure,” Robin said, sprawling out on the bed. “So, are you going to play with me or not?”

“No, Robin,” Robb said impatiently, glancing over at the fireplace. A pair of swords hung as decoration above the mantle. Robb was discouraged to see that they were trembling slightly. If he got any angrier he would end up impaling Robin to the bed. However much he wanted to do so, he would have to control himself. Robin had made keeping his anger at bay immaculate.

“Why not?” Robin whined, sitting up. “The Quickening is ages away. You’ll have plenty of time to train on the way. And you’re already so good at your war gift already.”

“The Quickening is next week,” Robb retorted. “I wouldn’t call that ages. And yes, my war gift is advanced, but not advanced as it should be.”

It has to been enough to kill all five of my other siblings.

The phrase lingered, unspoken, in both boys’ minds, but neither of them dared speak it. It was too bold, even for Robin. Robb turned away from the boy and looked back out at the mountaintops. He closed his eyes and tried to conjure up his sibling’s faces. Jon was the easiest. Robb had grown up until he was ten with Jon basically joined at the hip. They had done everything together. Jon would constantly shove poisonous berries and leaves into his mouth and tease Robb when he fretted over him. Sansa’s face was a little bit more blurry. He remembered her copper hair and icy blue eyes and the way she ate her candied scorpions with such elegance. She would scream and wail when the boys ran by and splattered her dress with mud.

Arya was even blurrier. She had long brown hair and always stole Robb’s clothes, and then sewed them to fit her better. She had the war gift as well, and she and Robb would butt heads often, throwing sticks and rocks at each other with flicks of their hands. Bran was the Robb remembered the least — all he remembered was that he was an oracle and lived with the Reeds at Greywater Watch. Rickon was just a tiny baby wrapped in green blankets when Robb had seen him last.

He didn’t want to kill his siblings. He didn’t want to lay a hand on them.

“Father said that I get to go to the Quickening,” Robin said instead. “He said I’ll get a front row seat.”

Yes, as will all the other family members of the people who fostered us, Robb thought. Maybe you and that bastard Tommen Lannister will get along.

“Robin, I have to go train,” Robb said, folding the sketch and shoving it into his pocket along with his stick of charcoal. “I’ll play with you another time.”

“Aw, really?” The boy whined as Robb got to his feet. Robin jumped up and threw himself in front of the door. “I won’t let you leave until you play with me!”

Robb sighed slowly through his nose. “Robin, I’m giving you three seconds to get out of my way.”

“No!” Robin yelled, eyes flashing.

“One.”

“I’m not moving!”

“Two.”

“Play with me, Robb!”

“Three.”

“I don’t care if you’re a king, you’re going to play with me!”

Robb stepped backwards onto the windowsill and promptly fell out of the window.

He enjoyed the sound of Robin’s startled shriek as he disappeared. This kind of exit never got old. He twisted upright as his feet slammed down into the roof of the kitchens. Searing pain shot up into his ankles, but it would be gone soon. Robb ran barefoot across the shingles, his feet pleasantly warm from the roof’s temperature. He slid down several floors and dropped off of the roof, landing in a roll and jumping to his feet as Lord Arryn walked into the courtyard.

“Ah, King Robb, right on time,” the older man said, smiling. Lord Arryn was an imposing figure, with dark skin and a close-cropped graying beard. He was the only person at the Eyrie who treated Robb as an equal.

“I thought today we’d work on some maneuvers to dodge,” Lord Arryn said briskly, flicking his hand. A pile of snow in the corner of the training courtyard sprang together, forming a soldier out of snow. The training snowman held a stick at a sword and a plank of wood for a shield.

“Go,” Lord Arryn said, stepping back as the snowman advanced. Robb drew his sword and struck out and parried, dodging the snowman’s swift attacks with grace. Any other man who didn’t have a war gift would have been slain with the snowman’s first strike. Robb came up on one knee and sliced downward, sawing the dummy in two. His chest heaved.

“Very good,” Lord Arryn mused. “But you must be better for the Quickening. Get up and do it again, please.”

Robb rose to his feet and wiped slush off of his trousers as the snowman rose to life again. This was Robb’s existence — training and sitting in cold towers as he waited for the Quickening. He was a king trapped by his own people.

The Quickening would be his escape. After the Quickening, he would be free to roam Westeros with anyone he wanted. It just couldn’t be his siblings. He had to kill his siblings or they would kill him.

He just had to survive the Quickening first.


	2. Sansa I

Sansa shivered as the cold black diamonds were settled on her chest. She looked up at herself in the mirror. Her ginger hair was piled on top of her head in a beautiful bun, with little ringlets hanging beside her ears. The servant dressing her clasped the necklace and then bent down to ruffle her skirts. They were black. Sansa hated the color black. It was the only color kings and queens could wear. Black and the tiniest bit of gray and silver. Sansa wanted to go out to her Gave Noir in a glittering pink frock with blue bows in her hair. But instead she was dressed in a lacy black dress with long gloves snaking up her arms.

“You’re all ready, Queen Sansa,” the servant whispered, curtsying abruptly. “I’ll send for Lady Yara to bring you to the feast.” She shuffled out of the room and it was quiet.

Sansa stepped off the box she had been standing on and strode over to the birdcage she kept by her bedside. The tiny canary inside tittered and fluffed up her wings. Sansa unlocked the cage and held out her hand. The canary hopped onto her arm and she pulled it back, staring deep into the canary’s little black eyes. She had captured the little bird a few months ago and kept it watered and fed herself. She had named it Sweetheart.

“Oh, Sweetheart,” Sansa sighed as the bird hopped around in her palm. “I wish I was like you. Free to sing whenever I wanted. But you’re in a cage, like I am. I would let you free to fly around my room, but I am afraid you would fly away and I would be lonely again.”

Sweetheart tilted her head to the side and opened her beak, letting out a little melody. Sansa giggled and listened to the canary’s song until there was a knock on her doorframe. Sansa turned, her ringlets swatting her in the face.

Yara stood in the doorway, her head tilted a little to the side. She was dressed in dark blue and brown clothes. Sansa had never once seen Yara in a dress. She always wore tight-fitting trousers and some sort of leather chest plate. That ever-present smirk was on her face.

“Leave your bird here,” Yara said softly. “Everyone is waiting for you.”

Sansa nodded slowly and put Sweetheart back in her cage, swinging the door shut. The canary continued her song, but Sansa placed a blanket over the cage and the tweets stopped.

Yara offered her arm and Sansa took it, walking with her back straight. They walked through the chilly halls of Pyke, towards the sound of jolly laughter and merrymaking. It wasn’t a foreign sound here. There was a party nearly every night. The Greyjoys were a family of wild elementals. However they had chosen to take in Sansa, a poisoner, instead of Arya and Robb, who were war-gifted. They had more experience with war gifts than poisoners — they had raised Sansa’s uncle, Benjen, who had been war gifted before he died in his Ascension Year.

Yara herself was war-gifted. She had the faintest powers as a water elemental as well, but was nowhere near as powerful as her brother or father. Sansa broke away from her thoughts as they emerged into the feasting hall.

Every head turned their way. At the head table, Lord Greyjoy, a stringy old man with a permanently sour expression and the worst hair Sansa had ever seen, stood.

“Queen Sansa,” He rumbled. “We welcome you to your celebratory Gave Noir.”

The people seated politely applauded as Sansa curtsied and made her way to the long table opposite of where the Greyjoys sat. It was loaded with food. Sansa’s mouth watered. At her practices, the food had all been fake, just bits of untainted bread and small pieces of steak. But now there were hens stuffed with hemlock dressing, stews of wild mushrooms, salads chock full of yew and nightshade berries, poisoned wine, and Sansa’s all-time favorite food: candied scorpions. She sighed just thinking of them.

She sat and looked out at her audience over the heaps of food. Most of them were lords of minor houses and nobles the Greyjoys were familiar with. Across the room, Lord Greyjoy, Yara, and Theon sat in a row, looking at her expectantly.

Her gaze lingered on Theon longer than it should have. He looked so handsome in his traditional Ironborn celebratory clothes. He had his cheek propped up lazily on his fist, and when he caught Sansa staring he smiled that immaculate doofus angel smile. Her neck flushed and she looked down at the tablecloth.

Katharine, one of the only poisoner nobles in the Iron Islands, approached her. She had been training Sansa since she was little. She spoke the words that Sansa had heard over and over again in the past two weeks.

“Are you hungry, my queen?” She said softly, her little voice barely covering the room.

Sansa looked her directly in the eye. “I am ravenous.”

—

Sansa began with the candied scorpions. They were her favorite and most of them were gone within minutes. She drank half the glass of te tainted wine in one gulp and plucked the leg off of the stuffed hen. She bit into it and made sure she ate the stuffing as well. She scooped the salad out of its bowl and picked the poison berries out of it, only eating those. The soup was the best besides the scorpions.

After she had eaten a bite everything tainted on the table, her stomach was hurting from the intake of so much food at once. But she found the strength to slam her hands down on the table, the signal that she was done.

The hall roared with cheers and applause. The Ironborn loved their queen. She stood and Katharine took her hand, holding it high.

“I give to you, your queen!” Katharine shouted, her voice barely audible over the tumult. “Queen Sansa of the Iron Islands!”

The hall echoed back the cry, and the seated crowd began pushing the long tables to the side to make room for the dancing that would soon take place. The Greyjoys got up and made their way down to the dance floor. Yara was swept up in the arms of some burly noble and Sansa saw her laugh as they twirled and practically fly around the room. Lord Greyjoy stayed near his table, watching the dances with an aloof expression. Only Theon advanced towards Sansa’s table, smiling like an idiot.

“You were magnificent,” Theon said as he swept Sansa up in his arms. She giggled. “What about our agreement to be discreet?” She said. She and Theon had been together for years, but the closer it came to the arrival of the suitors she got more and more nervous. Theon wasn’t on the list of possible suitors, which worried Sansa. She was truly in love with him. If she won her crown, she would have to pick from the pool of suitors.

“Don’t think about that now,” Theon said, as if he could read her thoughts. “Just dance with me.”

He swept Sansa out onto the dance floor, squeezing in between two pairs of dancers. They twirled around the dance floor, Sansa’s head thrown back with laughter, long after the song was over. Then another started up again and they danced. Again. And again. And again.

Sansa knew that she wouldn’t have a chance to dance with Theon for a long time. The Quickening was next week. There she would see her siblings after nearly thirteen years of being apart.

“Just stay with me in this moment,” Theon asked after they had paused to take a quick break. “Don’t think about the Quickening for a while.”

Sansa nodded lightly as he led her back onto the dance floor. She was lying to Theon and she knew it — but not in a bad way. She was homesick for her siblings. She missed them. And the Quickening was her ticket to them.


	3. Bran I

A crocodile had found its way into Bran’s room.

He really didn’t care at this point. He had grown tired of constantly shoving them back out the windows. He rolled over in his bed and watched as it slowly waddled over to his desk, its snout bumping against the leg. It recoiled slowly, then adjusted its course slightly so that it slunk in between the chair and the table leg. It lay down underneath the desk, its beady little eyes not moving and its mouth open ever so slightly.

Crocodiles were annoying. Not as annoying as Bran’s mind lately, though. His brain was constantly bombarded with annoyingly vague visions. He saw flashes of the Quickening but he forgot them in a matter of seconds.

Like now. A flash of something. Orange—no, blue—green, it would have to have been—black—now bright yellow—

Bran groaned and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. Under the desk, the crocodile made a guttural sound.

A faint knock came at his door. Bran rolled over so he faced the wall, hoping that if he feigned sleep they’d go away. He needed time with his visions.

The door creaked open and Bran knew at once it would have to be Jojen. Meera barged in like she owned the place (which indeed she did) and the rest of the household called his name before they entered. Bran shut his eyes, trying to force himself to sleep.

“You have a crocodile under your desk.”

Bran let out an exasperated sigh. He rolled back over, sitting up on his elbows and looking at Jojen sourly. The youngest Reed stood looking at the crocodile, as if considering the best way to grab it and chuck it out the window. His honey-colored hair hung in his eyes and his arms were crossed, tapping unconsciously at his arm.

“I know,” Bran grumbled. “Thanks for waking me up.”

“You weren’t sleeping.” Jojen said, turning his head to look at him. Those piercing green eyes burrowed deep into Bran. Bran shifted. Jojen always seemed to know what he was thinking, even though telepathy wasn't an oracle gift.

“Do you want me to get Meera to throw the crocodile away?” Jojen said, tilting his head to the side. “Or are you going to get out of bed and do it yourself?”

“I’m going to get it,” Bran said, throwing back the blankets and sliding out of bed. He could pick up the playful mockery in Jojen’s tone of voice. He walked over to the desk and grabbed the crocodile by its tail, dragging it out from the desk. It made the throaty sound again and thrashed, but it was unable to reach back and snap at him. Jojen stepped out of the way as Bran kicked the crocodile out the window and into the water below. Bran wiped dirt off of his hands and turned to look at Jojen again. He was dressed to go out into the swamps — he wore warm furs, waterproof trousers and had a pack slung over his shoulder.

“Where are we going today?” Bran asked, walking over to make his bed.

“The Quickening,” Jojen said, startling Bran. Bran stood upright. “The Quickening?” Bran echoed. “That’s not for another week. We’re closer than any of my siblings, save maybe the Greyjoys. We should be leaving early next week.”

Jojen shrugged. “It’s my father’s orders. The servants already have your things packed. Get dressed.”

And with that he left. Bran stared at the door long after, not really sure what to do.

The Quickening was what all his visions had been referring to. Even if he couldn’t remember what they were about, he knew they were about the Quickening ceremony. Something big was going to happen there. He didn’t know what, but something big.

He went to his wardrobe and hastily dressed in his black traveling clothes. The Reeds weren’t very strict in the rules that he had to dress in black, and he mostly only did when they went into town or traveled outside of Greywater Watch. Since today they’d probably just be in the swamps, alone, he chose to wear a pair of simple brown trousers that fit him better than any of the black ones he owned. Plus, most of his black clothing had been packed away already. His hands lingered over the colorful attire he had. It was mostly birthday gifts from Meera and Jojen. Little bits of innocent rebellion. Most of the clothes had never been worn, since he’d never found the occasion. He pulled out one of the articles of clothing to look at. It was a beautifully made blue tunic, slightly shimmery in the morning light. It was lined with copper thread. Bran had never worn it because he had been too afraid of getting it dirty. Anything you wore here was bound to get stained.

He rolled up the tunic and shoved it into his pack. Maybe he could wear it when they reached Winterfell.

He walked out into the main hall of Greywater Watch where the Reeds were waiting. Lord Reed, Meera, and Jojen talked in a circle, their heads together. When Meera saw Bran approach, she broke away, smiling at him. She had pulled her wild hair back from her face. She was dressed in furs as well.

“Are you sure you won’t be cold?” She said, nodding to his attire. “Winterfell isn’t as warm as the Neck.”

“I’ll be fine,” Bran said, stopping in front of them. “I was born in Winterfell. The cold will not bother me.”

“We should be heading out,” Lord Reed said briskly, looking up at the thatched wood ceiling. “Greywater Watch is as far north as it can float. It will start moving south in the next hour. We should get a head start.”

So that’s why Lord Reed is so anxious to leave early, Bran thought. If we leave next week it will take even longer since Greywater Watch moves.

“What about the servants bringing our things?” Bran asked as they walked out of the main room and down onto the courtyards. “They will come next week when the rest of your siblings start coming,” Lord Reed explained. “They will reach us in time for the Quickening.”

They emerged into the swamp. Bran breathed in the musky, humid air. It was the only air he’d known for his whole life. He had been only one year old when Rickon was born and he had been swept up by the Reeds and taken to the Watch. However (maybe it was Bran’s sight powers) he remembered the day clearly. He remembered the faces of the families who had taken his siblings. Jon had been taken by the haughty and highborn Lannisters, all with gold hair and perfect attire. Robb had been taken by the Arryns, whose lady regent was Bran’s aunt by birth — she was Bran’s mother’s sister. He vaguely remembered that Robb and Jon had kicked and screamed, even though they were both six years old, begging for their foster families to let them go and for them to stay together. Sansa and Arya had gone without a fuss; even at one year old Bran could see how infatuated Sansa was with the Greyjoy boy who was a year older than her at six years old. Arya had gladly jumped onto the shoulders of young Viserys Targaryen. Rickon had begun to cry as he was passed into the arms of Walder Frey’s daughter Corlisse, who was only five.

He was nervous to meet his siblings after being apart for so long. His visions suggested something was going to happen at the Quickening.

But he had to survive the journey there first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before people start to ask—
> 
> Arya and Jon will not have POV chapters because 1. They’re my least favorite StarKs and I have no idea where to start with them and 2. Because their chapters would have been very very similar to Robb and Sansa’s since Arya would be training her war gift and Jon would be having his Gave Noir.


	4. Rickon I

Rickon ducked underneath the floorboards, his heart pounding. He pulled the plank of wood back into place over his head and was immediately shrouded in darkness. He crouched down as far away as the tiny crawl space could let him. Sharp lines of light cut down from the spaces between the floorboards. He drew his legs up to his chest, breathing fast.

The Freys had showed him all the possible hiding places in the Twins if he ever had to hide from an approaching army or assassins. Though Rickon never imagined he’d be using the hiding places for this reason.

He shrunk back as brisk footsteps pattered on the floor above him, and a sharp voice saying something inaudible barked. His breathing became more and more labored with fear as the footsteps became quicker and the orders being yelled became louder. He pressed his forehead into his knees, blood roaring in his ears.

He held his breath. The footsteps and voices had stopped. The room above Rickon’s head was completely silent.

Creeeeeeak.

Rickon gulped. He was going to die.

The light was cut off as a figure stood over his hiding place. Rickon murmured a prayer to the Old Gods.

The floorboard was ripped up and Rickon shrieked.

“Found you!” Sebastian shouted, grinning like an idiot. “I win! I won! Weep for mercy!”

“My hiding place was so good!” Rickon grumbled, striking the floor. “How did you find me?”

“Common sense,” Sebastian said as he hauled Rickon out of the hole in the floor and began to dust him off. “You seem like the type to crawl into a hole in the floor.”

“Hey,” Rickon protested, but Sebastian just smiled. His electric blue eyes were happier than Rickon had seen them in a long time.

“Did you find Rickon?” Corlisse called from the hallway. She had the bottom of a curtain in her hand.

“Yes,” Sebastian called back to his sister. “He was in a hole.”

“I was in the floor,” Rickon corrected.

“Same thing,” Sebastian said, and Rickon stuck out his tongue at him.

“Well, then that means Sebastian won,” Corlisse said, coming over. “He won best out of three.”

“Yes!” Sebastian said, hopping up and down. “What’s my prize?”

“Nothing,” Corlisse said with a haughty smirk.

“What?” Sebastian retorted. “Nothing? It takes skill to get best out of three!”

“Now, now, children,” Rickon said, pulling them apart. He spoke as if he wasn’t the same age as Sebastian. “Let’s not fight. But yes there must be a prize somewhere.” He turned on Corlisse.

Corlisse rolled her eyes. “Whatever,” she said, throwing her hands up. “I’m going to pack for the Quickening.” She tapped Rickon on the nose with a slender finger. “And you should too.” She turned and left, her heeled shoes echoing through the drafty halls.

Rickon and Sebastian looked at each other. Rickon sighed.

“She’s right,” he said, kicking the floorboard back into place. “I have to pack.”

“What will you bring besides clothes?” Sebastian asked as they walked towards the room they shared. “Seeds? Thorns? A snapper turtle?”

“It’s a secret,” Rickon said cheekily. Sebastian groaned. “Come on! Out of anyone, you can tell me what you’re doing for the Quickening.”

“Nope,” Rickon said, rummaging around in his trunk. He began pulling out and tossing clothes out onto the floor. “It’s a very secret secret. Sorry.”

“I’ll see it soon anyways,” Sebastian said. He began picking up the clothes Rickon threw out and folding them. He shoved all the folded clothes into another trunk.

“Trust me, you’ll like it,” Rickon said once they were done.“It’ll be for you.”

Sebastian giggled as Rickon pulled him close and planted a kiss on his forehead. “Thanks,” Sebastian said, wriggling out of his grasp. “I’ll remember you said that when you die.”

Rickon laughed. “Yeah. I’m going to win the duels.” He tapped Sebastian’s nose. “For you.”

“RICKON!”

The boys both flinched and looked at the door.

“Someone’s in trouble,” Sebastian said in singsong, pulling away from Rickon and grinning.

“I’m not!” Rickon protested. “I haven’t done anything wrong! I swear!”

“Rickon!” The voice came nearer, and Rickon could tell it was Corlisse. He turned around just as she blew open the door.

“Shaggydog got out,” she said. “Again. You need to tie him up, Rickon.”

“I did!” Rickon said.

Corlisse raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, I untied him after a while,” Rickon confessed. “He was getting sad! He doesn’t like being confined!”

“Tell that to him after he kills somebody,” Corlisse said hotly, turning away. “He’s on the other side of the river by now. Get him back and keep him somewhere where he won’t get out.”

“Corlisse, the Twins doesn’t exactly have kennels,” Rickon pointed out as he followed her. “And if I keep him in my room he’ll tear up the curtains and the bedsheets. And if I put him in the stables he’ll maul the horses.”

“I get that the Twins isn’t an ideal place for a direwolf,” Corlisse said briskly. “But he’s your familiar. You need to learn to control him. If you can’t do that than maybe you’re not cut out to be king.”

Rickon narrowed his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek. “I already am a king,” he pointed out.

“You aren’t the King Crowned yet,” Corlisse said fearlessly. Rickon frowned. Did she know who she was talking to? He was her king. She should address him so.

They came to a balcony overlooking the river and the bridge. Almost immediately they spotted the huge black direwolf, tearing his way across the bridge and scattering the people crossing.

“Handle your beast or I’ll have to send for guards,” Corlisse said, crossing her arms.

Rickon glared at her. “Sending a bolt into my direwolf wouldn’t be good for any of us,” he said, but he closed his eyes and concentrated.

At once he felt Shaggydog’s feelings — excited and exhilarated from being out out of his cage. Rickon scrunched up his face. Shaggydog always had the strongest emotions and it was hard to rein him.

Shaggy, come back, please, Rickon thought, starting out gentle. He felt Shaggydog’s want to escape falter, but then he ignored it and kept going.

Rickon dug his fingers into the stone railing. Shaggy. Come back right now.

The direwolf kept running, and even with his eyes closed Rickon could tell he was nearing the end of the bridge.

SHAGGYDOG! Rickon shouted. He pictured the direwolf turning around and running obediently back to the tower. Come back RIGHT NOW!

The direwolf suddenly turned and started running back. Rickon let out at breath he hadn’t known he had been holding and opened his eyes. Sure enough, Shaggydog had turned and was running back towards the tower.

“It took you long enough,” Corlisse said. “I’ve seen naturalists summon carrier pigeons from across the continent with a flick of their wrist.”

Rickon glared at her again as Shaggydog entered the drawbridge and he turned to go meet the direwolf before he could get into the main halls. “He’s a direwolf. Direwolves can never be fully tame.”

“Of course,” Corlisse said, and she remained at the balcony as Rickon went down to the lower floors to catch Shaggydog.

The black direwolf was sniffing around at the locked doors of the kitchen when Rickon found him. “Hey,” he said softly, putting a hand on Shaggydog’s furry neck. “You need to stop getting out of your kennel, okay?”

Shaggydog gave him a look that seemed to say, What kennel? It’s more like a cage than anything.

Rickon sighed. “You’ll be free to roam in a little while,” he said, petting him behind his ears. “Once we get to the Quickening you can go wherever you want and scare whoever you want. Our goal is to get people to respect us.” Shaggydog’s ears pricked; he was interested.

“We’re going to win our Ascension Year, Shaggy,” Rickon said, scratching the direwolf’s nose. “We’re going to win and after that, you can eat anyone you want, because no one will care — whatever the king does is right.”


	5. Robb II

Robb was convinced that nothing was as beautiful as the capital city of Winterfell.

When they first pulled up in their carriages Robb had ripped back the curtain and hadn’t stopped staring at the parapets and gray walls until long after he was inside. It was a city as well as a keep — fields and farms and closely built cottages lined muddy and wet streets that all met to flow into the main gate of the keep of Winterfell. Robb had seen more people here than he had seen in one place ever.

They had arrived yesterday and were the second ones to reach Winterfell. Robb’s younger brother Bran had been the first to arrive; word had it that the Reeds set out early last week and had reached Winterfell three days before Robb. They hadn’t even traveled with an entourage — just Lord Howland Reed, his two children, Meera Reed, who was Sansa’s age, and Jojen Reed, who was a year older than Bran at fifteen. And, of course, Bran himself. Robb hadn’t seen him since he arrived — he was squirreled away in his room receiving visions, he was sure.

But today the rest of Robb’s siblings would be arriving. He wasn't invited to the arrival, but he was bent on watching from his window.

He woke up early and got dressed. In black. That was one thing the siblings had in common — they would all be wearing black. Robb wasn't sure why the old kings and queens had made that a rule. It made the sibling monarchs seem more alike than anything.

Robb was leaning on his windowsill, intent on drawing a naturalist girl with raccoons all around her, when the trumpet blast announcing the arrival of a king or queen sounded. Robb’s head shot up so fast that he got whiplash.

Dozens of carriages were rolling through Winterfell’s main road, most of them just carrying luggage and servants. The first ones had black flags with a yellow kraken; it was the Greyjoys. One of the carriages had a flag larger than the rest: a gray direwolf across a silver background. It must be Sansa. Behind the Greyjoy caravan were carriages marked with a sigil of twin towers against a gray and blue field. The Freys, and Rickon.

Robb couldn’t see the rest of the carriages from his vantage point at the window, but he knew they’d pull up to the platform just underneath him. Sansa’s carriage stopped at the platform and a courtier pulled open the door. Robb’s breath caught.

He might not remember much about Sansa, but he always imagined her to be beautiful. Now she was even prettier — her long ginger hair was down and tumbling about her shoulders, and she wore a beautiful, flowing black dress with a furry shawl and silver jewelry — a bold move in the terms of rules of attire. She wore a glittering jet crown and her lips were painted with rouge. Even from the window Robb could see her thick black eyelashes.

She stepped down daintily from her carriage and out onto the platform, looking anxiously at the carriage that had pulled up behind hers. It was the Greyjoy family — Lord Balon Greyjoy and his daughter and son Yara and Theon. Theon and Sansa exchanged a long glance and then quickly looked away. Robb shifted his arms. What was up with that?

Sansa and the Greyjoys moved to the side of the platform as Rickon and the Freys pulled to a stop in front of the platform. When the courtier opened the door for Rickon’s carriage, Robb was startled when a huge black direwolf leaped out, shaking his massive body and barking louder than a war cry. He had glinting green eyes and his teeth looked sharper than swords. The direwolf spotted Sansa and growled at her. She pursed her lips and shuffled a few feet away from the animal.

Rickon emerged after his familiar, and Robb was appalled to see how skinny and frail he looked. He had been a very small baby, but Robb had figured he would grow to be strong and tall like Robb and Jon had. But he was short, a teeny bit taller than Sansa at most. He was dressed in a shiny black tunic and a gray cape pinned with a direwolf pin. He, too, wore a crown, this one thick and probably heavy with dark gemstones. He held his hand out and the direwolf complied, lowering his head and shambling over to where Rickon was.

The carriage behind Rickon produced the Freys: Lady Corlisse and the young lord, Sebastian. Their father had been murdered under mysterious circumstances and Sebastian had been given lordship at age ten. Mostly it was Corlisse pulling the strings but they hadn’t gotten themselves killed yet, which was an improvement for any Frey.

Behind the Freys was the Lannisters. Robb found himself hanging out of the window as Jon got out of his carriage. He looked leaner and skinnier than he had been when they last saw each other, with small white scars running across his face. He had let his hair grow out, Robb noticed. He used to keep it close cropped like Robb did, but now it was wild and curly about his head. He wore simple black clothes with silver accents, and a long cloak that trailed in the mud. He looked sullen, like he was too tired to keep going. But he hauled himself out of the carriage and took his place near Sansa and the Greyjoys.

The Lannisters got out of their carriages, all gleaming and gold. Cersei Lannister looked immaculate in a rich red dress that must have cost a fortune, her long gold hair done up in braids. Her brother Jaime was dressed simply in a brown tunic and breeches. Perhaps she’d been dressing him like a peasant ever since word got out that her children were bastards.

The children were as immaculate as Robb would have guessed. Though he was surprised by Joffrey. He had expected the prickly golden-haired boy to be much taller and muscular, but he was as skinny as Rickon, and his younger sister Myrcella easily towered over him by at least a foot. Myrcella was Cersei Lannister’s clone. She had lighter hair, but the same cherub-style features, and she wore a pretty pink dress laced with butterflies. Robb didn’t miss Sansa’s envious glare. The youngest, Tommen, who was Rickon’s age, looked as tired as Jon, and he dragged his feet as he followed his parents and his siblings. He wore a pretty red-and-gold cape but didn’t try to pick it up as it dragged in the dirt. Jon looked so out of place with the bright and colorful Lannisters. Robb personally thought that Jon would have fit much better with the Greyjoys and Sansa with the Lannisters, but the Lannisters had first pick of Jon anyways.

Behind Jon was Arya, no doubt trying to be fashionably late. She was dressed in tight-fitting, silver-and-black clothes that looked better for training than a welcoming ceremony. A tiny sword hung at her waist. Her hair hung down to her shoulders, the back pulled up into a small bun at the crown of her head. She moved with grace, always on tiptoe. Robb took care to examine her the most. She was war-gifted as well.

The Targaryens got out of their carriage behind Arya. It was only Daenerys and her brother Viserys left of the once-great house. Viserys was giftless, and Daenerys was legion-gifted, which meant that she was a naturalist and a war-gifted. Legion gifts were extremely rare and often prophesied about by priestesses.

Daenerys had not one but three familiars — and unusual ones at that. She had three dragons, their wings spanning larger than city blocks and their fiery breath enough to burn a whole city in one huge yawn. The dragons were nowhere to be seen right now, but Robb had a feeling they trailed their mistress wherever she went.

Once everyone had taken their place on the platform they dismissed, the kings and queens separating as quickly as they could. Robb watched as the last Lannister disappeared into the keep and then leaned back from the window. More carriages kept coming, some with banners that weren’t of foster families. These were the families of the suitors that would be presented tonight and would participate in the Hunt of the Suitors for the Quickening Feast. Robb rubbed his face. There was a lot to do in the next three days.

He glanced at his bed. He had fallen asleep late last night. He wasn’t supposed to be doing anything until the presenting of the suitors later that night. Surely it wouldn’t hurt anyone to catch a few more hours of sleep.

As soon as his head hit the pillow he was asleep.


	6. Sansa II

Sansa’s neck ached from the amount of hair that had been piled on the back of her head. Her hairdresser had put in plenty of extra silver and diamonds along with her tiara, so her head felt like it was ten pounds of extra weight added on to her already sagging dress. The thing was magnificent — long and poofy and black, of course — but Sansa nearly fell over when her maids slid it onto her. Her jeweler had loaded her arms and throat with pearls and jet, making picking up things hard. But the important thing was that she was beautiful.

The suitors would be coming and presenting themselves at the feast tonight. She had to look perfect for them.

In other words, she had to look perfect for Theon.

She snuck another glance at the back of his head. He was seated with his back to her at one of the long tables in the main hall of Winterfell along with Yara and Lord Greyjoy. The quietly refined dinner party must seem so strange to them. They were used to rowdy festivities with fights knocking over tables and their hands becoming sticky with spirits. The families mostly sat in little clusters, as far away from each other as they could get.

Sansa carefully set down her fork. The food she ate was untainted, which was a strange thing in itself. She was so used to the sweet taste of poisons on her tongue. She cautiously glanced to her right. Her siblings and herself were seated at a long table at the head of the room on a raised dias, looking out at the hall. Robb and Jon sat to Sansa’s right, while Arya, Bran and Rickon sat to her left. Jon had eaten nearly half his plate but Robb’s food remained virtually untouched. He kept picking up his fork and spinning it, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he looked out at the crowd.

Sansa looked over at her other siblings. Arya was eating, her dark eyes peeking out of her untidy mop of hair to stare at the room. Bran ate much more quietly, taking tiny pieces and chewing them for a long time. Rickon’s plate appeared like he had eaten, but he was slumped against the chair back with crossed arms and his chin on his chest.

Sansa sighed and picked up her fork. She stabbed a piece of steak and shoved it into her mouth, chewing briskly. How long would they drag this dinner on? Didn’t they know it was torturing the siblings to have to sit next to each other?

Sansa wasn’t tortured, though. She felt a little bit relaxed, to be among her siblings again. How much she wanted to lean over and tug on Robb’s sleeve, to giggle again with Arya over girl jokes. But they sat rigid on either side of her, and she felt like if she even attempted to make small talk they’d chuck a fork at her with their minds.

Finally, when the silence couldn’t possibly last any longer, the doors of the hall creaked open and a barrel-shaped page walked in. He held a piece of parchment in his hand. He looked up at the main table. Almost immediately a dozen or so servants appeared at the table, picking it up with a large heave and carrying it out of the hall. Sansa bit the inside of her cheek. The suitors would be arriving.

The page cleared his throat. “Lady Meera Reed,” he said in a loud voice. “From Greywater Watch. Naturalist.”

A beautiful young woman maybe Sansa’s age appeared at the doors and came down the center aisle. She was Bran’s foster sister, she knew. Her wild hair had been pulled back with a gold headband and she wore a flowing green dress that brought out her the gray in her eyes.

She curtsied to the siblings and went to sit on the side of the room that had a long bench on it. There were two benches on that side of the room; one bench would hold Robb and Jon’s suitors and the other would hold Sansa’s. The other side of the room was the same, just with three to suit Arya, Bran, and Rickon’s suitors.

The page also called Meera’s younger brother, Jojen, who was meant for Arya. Sansa noticed he walked with a limp. Poor boy. She hoped Arya wouldn’t choose him — she might end up killing him.

With every suitor Sansa snuck glances at her siblings. When Myrcella Lannister was dedicated to Robb and Jon by plopping down right next to Meera, Sansa saw Robb shift uncomfortably. Did he not like her? Good. Sansa hated the fact that Myrcella dressed so elegantly and freely while Sansa was confined to her heavy black prison. Joffrey was intended for Sansa (ew) and Tommen was intended for Arya.

The names of the suitors all began to blend together. Sansa had nearly fallen asleep by the time they reached the end of the list.

“Shireen Baratheon, of Dragonstone. Elemental.” A tiny girl no older than thirteen scurried down the aisle. She had sparrow-brown hair braided back elegantly, and she wore a pretty yellow dress with black lace. She had a gray scar on the side of her face that made her left eye sag wider than her right and dragged down the corner of her mouth. She wore a simple gold-and-diamond hair net and bowed briskly to the siblings, before going to sit down on Rickon’s bench, which was nearly empty.

“Ramsay Bolton, of Dreadfort. War-gifted.”

Sansa lazily looked up and froze.

The young man walking towards her was one of the most beautiful creatures she’d ever seen. He had curly raven hair that drooped into his icy blue eyes. He had a pale complexion that went well with his high-collared, shiny black tunic and black breeches. He looked unhappy to be there. He bowed stiffly to the kings and queens and managed to catch Sansa’s eye. He kept her gaze for a beat too long and then turned to walk to her bench. He slumped next to Joffrey and kept his eyes on his boots.

Two more suitors — one for Bran and one for Robb and Jon — before the page rolled up his scroll and bowed to the siblings. The dinner broke up, the suitors scurrying back to their families and the people wandering out of the hall. Next to Sansa, Arya stood up quickly and left. Rickon followed suit, casting a devious look over his shoulder at his siblings. Bran wandered off soon after, and Jon after him. Soon it was just Robb and Sansa sitting alone in the dimly lit hall.

Sansa took a sharp intake of breath as Robb spoke.

“Sansa.”

She turned slowly, her earrings batting the skin of her neck. Robb was looking at her with handsome blue eyes, his mouth in a perfect straight line.

“Hi,” was all he said.

Sansa snorted with laughter. Robb blinked in surprise. “‘Hi?’ After thirteen years all you have to say is ‘hi?’”

“What am I supposed to say?” Robb protested. “‘Hello, I’m sorry I’ll be trying to kill you in three days?’”

“It would be a more interesting introduction,” Sansa said, smiling a little. The only people she smiled this genuinely with were Theon and Yara.

Robb still looked crestfallen. “I’ve sort of missed you,” he admitted. “All of you. Everyone has changed.”

“I know.” Sansa said, looking back out at the empty hall. “Jon is so much more quiet. Arya can’t even look at any of us without sneering.”

“We all learned about how we’d be killing each other,” Robb said. “We didn’t know that when we got separated. Perhaps the promise of a crown made Arya tainted.”

“Perhaps,” Sansa said a little sadly. “I don’t want to kill anyone.”

“Me neither,” Robb said. He stood. “I should be getting back to my chambers. People will talk if they see us together.”

“Yes,” Sansa said quietly as he exited the hall.

She sat for a little while longer before she went back to her room. As she walked, she kept having the feeling she was being watched. At one point she glanced behind her and saw a flash — green eyes catching in the firelight of a torch.

Green eyes, Sansa thought to herself as she walked more quickly. Low to the ground. It’s Rickon’s familiar. The direwolf.

She got to her room and locked the door firmly. She should get to bed early. The Quickening was tomorrow.

She lay down but sleep didn’t find her for a long time.


	7. Bran II

The black stallion shifted beneath of Bran and he gripped the reins more tightly. He was not used to be riding so high from the ground. The ponies that the Reeds had were shaggier and were much shorter than the magnificent beast Bran rode.

He sat astride the stallion with his siblings on either side of him, in 5e same line they were at the feast. Rickon’s slightly smaller horse was dancing in place, and Bran kept thinking that Rickon was telling it to show off.

The suitors were on horseback as well, the men wearing finely craftedhunting gear and the ladies all wore mostly green or darker dresses with trousers underneath. Though Myrcella still wore a very bright pink dress. Bran had seen Sansa glare at her as she cantered past on a bright white stallion.

“The rules of the Hunt are simple,” Jon said from astride his monstrous golden steed. No doubt a gift from the Lannisters. As the eldest he would be addressing everyone during their time in Winterfell. “Each suitor must bring down a piece of game to contribute to the Quickening feast. Any suitor who does not bring down game will be eliminated from the roster.” Jon’s dark eyes scanned the gathered riders. “You have until midday to hunt. May the gods have favor with you.”

The riders immediately wheeled around and took off into the woods, most carrying bows and arrows and crossbows, others carrying swords andspears. Bran watched them go. They would follow soon after and watch the suitors from afar.

They stayed at the edge of the forest for a while, before Rickon grew impatient and dug his heels into the horse’s side and he galloped away into the forest. Arya followed a few moments after, leaving Bran, Sansa, Robb and Jon.

“Good hunting,” Sansa said unexpectedly, her gaze lingering on Robb for a few moments before following the others. Bran glanced back at Robb and Jon before cantering into the forest.

He rode for a while before he saw flashes of horses in the foliage. Some riders must be nearby. He rode into a clump of bushes and dismounted as two suitors rode into the clearing.

It was Joffrey Lannister and his younger brother, Tommen. Bran exhaled. No one intended for him. Joffrey wore rich red velvet and had a large crossbow resting in front of him in the saddle. Tommen was on a pony and carried a tiny sword, barely good for slicing anything but bread. Joffrey wheeled his horse around a few times, as if he was trying to scent the air.

“Have you seen anything yet?” Joffrey growled at Tommen. The younger boy shook his head slowly. “No,” he said tiredly. “Maybe if we split up—“

“We are not splitting up,” Joffrey said sharply, but then promptly told Tommen to go hunt somewhere else; he was scaring away all the prey. Tommen cantered off and Joffrey looked around for a little while before continuing on.

Bran exhaled and tied his horse up to a tree, favoring walking instead of riding. He walked for a while, avoiding the other suitors before he saw a low-hanging branch. He hurried over and grabbed it, hauling himself up into the tree. He scampered along into the higher branches. He had always been nimble in trees, preferring to look down instead of up. He crawled around in the trees for a while before he saw another suitor.

It was Shireen, the only child of Stannis and Selyse Baratheon. She was crouched on the ground, her bright yellow dress unnatural in her surroundings. She was cradling a little bunny in her hands, crying and murmuring to it. The rabbit was bleeding from an arrow to the side, and its little sides were quivering like a leaf in the wind.

Bran watched her for a while, the sounds of the hunt getting a little closer every moment. Finally he dropped down from the tree, put a hand on her shoulder, and put a finger to his lips.

Shireen jumped and nearly shrieked, but clapped her mouth shut when she saw it was Bran. She looked back at the rabbit. “I found it,” she said miserably. “I think someone else shot it but left it for better game. I don’t want it to die.”

“That bunny may be the only chance you have of winning this competition,” Bran said. “Look, I’ll take the bunny over there, away from here. I’ll kill it and bring it back. You can take it to the feast to stay in the competition.”

Shireen’s doe-eyes got impossibly wider. “No!” she cried. “I don’t want it to die. Not by you, not by anyone. I want it to grow up and have little bunny babies and have little bunny grandbunnies.”

“Shireen,” Bran soothed. “Do you want to win this competition?”

The girl seemed to bite the inside of her cheek. “Yeah,” she whispered. “My mum and dad would kill me if I get eliminated now.”

“Exactly,” Bran soothed. “I’m doing you a favor by letting you off the hook for killing it. There won’t be any blood involved — I learned to kill rabbits without any blood when I was seven.”

Shireen looked like she was going to protest, but then carefully put the bunny into Bran’s arms. “Do it,” she whispered. “Make it quick. Don’t make it hurt.”

Bran nodded and carried the bunny away, into a thicket a ways away from Shireen. He put the little bunny out of its pain, cleaned the blood from its pelt the best he could, and then brought it back to Shireen.

“Will it be enough for the feast?” Shireen asked. Bran nodded. “I think. They never said how much you needed for it, just game.”

Shireen nodded. “Thank you so much.”

Bran nodded. “Don’t tell anyone I helped you — just in case this is cheating.”

Shireen dipped her head to him and hurried over to her horse — a shaggy black-and-white pony — mounted, and rode away back towards Winterfell.

Bran lingered for a little while longer — watching suitors succeeding and failing to bring down game — before turning back the way he came. Emerging from the forest, he saw that only Jon and Arya had returned from the hunt. They didn’t acknowledge him as he rode up to stop his horse next to theirs.

Finally Robb, Sansa, and Rickon came back, along with the rest of the suitors at the trumpet horn that signaled the end of the hunt. They rode back to Winterfell in deafening silence, the only sound being the skidding of the horse’s hooves on the icy cobbles.

They separated at the stables as they went to their chambers to prepare for the Quickening. Bran closed his door as a vision seared into his head. He expected just normal flashes, but this one was much too clear.

A wooden stage.

Fire flickering around Sansa’s feet.

Jon screaming as blood pooled around him.

And then Bran was back to reality.

He blinked several times, realizing that his pulse had probably doubled in speed.

_That was worrying._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry for the wait, I’ve been sick so I had a chance to write a few more chapters for this. Now we’re at the Quickening!!!! Yay!!!


	8. Rickon II

Rickon bounced in his seat, barely containing his excitement as the courtiers set up the last remaining planks for the stage. He sat in the viewing box along with the Freys, though he’d be leaving soon — he had the first presentation. Unlike a lot of other things during the Ascension Year, the youngest sibling always came first for the Quickening, and the eldest always came last.

“Someone’s excited,” Sebastian murmured from Rickon’s right. Rickon glanced over at him. The young lord was watching the finishing touches through thick eyelashes. He looked over at Rickon.

“Of course I’m excited,” Rickon said. “Shaggydog and I have been practicing the whole time we’ve been traveling here. I’m so ready to show up my siblings.”

“Hm.” Sebastian hummed, looking back at the stage. Rickon frowned. “You don’t seem very excited to watch us,” Rickon said.

“Just tired,” Sebastian mumbled, rubbing his eye. Rickon huffed out a breath and watched the spectators spill into the large arena.

“You’d better get going,” Sebastian said after a while. “You’re first, after all.”

Rickon nodded, standing. “Okay. Wish me good luck?”

Sebastian looked up at him through his eyelashes. “You don’t need it,” he said, smiling slyly.

Rickon beamed back and climbed down the viewing box, getting Shaggydog at the bottom. He slid behind the stage to where he would wait to go on.

The minutes seemed to drag on for hours until finally a man poked his head around the wall and told him it was time for the Quickening to begin.

A few seconds later Rickon stood on the creaky wooden platform, partially blinded by flashing jewelry and the roars of the crowd. Shaggydog was bushed up to his full, massive size —nearly as tall as Rickon himself — and growling under his breath, but Rickon could barely hear him over the tumult. When it seemed like the crowd was dying down but was still in uproar, Rickon backed up a few paces and put his hands on his knees. Shaggydog pricked his ears, already knowing what to do.

“Shaggy,” Rickon called. The audience were shushing each other, eager to hear what Rickon was saying. Rickon fought down the urge to smile. “Shaggydog, sit.”

The enormous black wolf sat down, making the floorboards shake. His tongue lolled out of his mouth and he appeared to be smiling. The audience rumbled with confusion.

“Shaggydog, lay down,” Rickon continued, patting his knees. Shaggydog slumped into a leisurely position, his tail swishing back and forth as he peeked out from underneath his paws.

“Roll over!” Rickon called, smiling now. Shaggydog complied, rolling over with a creak of floorboards. It encouraged some coos from the younger members of the audience, but it was mostly confused whispering.

“Shaggydog, speak,” Rickon said, his smile widening. Shaggydog barked with the volume of a lion’s roar. The crowd murmured in surprise, but Rickon could tell they still weren’t impressed.

“Shaggydog...” Rickon said, more softly than the other times. The audience fell silent. Rickon could see the training dummy behind the curtain. At his word a courtier would kick it out into view. Rickon’s gaze flicked up to the Frey’s viewing box. Corlisse was on the edge of her seat, her eyes glimmering with humor, and Sebastian was smiling. Rickon smiled back.

“Shaggydog...” Rickon repeated. He looked deep into the direwolf’s emerald eyes. “...maul.”

The dummy was pushed out into view and Shaggydog descended on it like an ebony blizzard. He howled louder than when Rickon had commanded him to as he seized the dummy by the neck and began to shake it violently. The head came clear off, the stuffing spilling out of it like blood, but the direwolf didn’t stop there. He threw himself at the rest of the dummy, tearing its arms off like plucking a blade of grass. The legs followed soon after, and then the dummy was so more than a pile of fabric and wool.

Shaggydog turned to face the crowd. His shoulders were hulking and he was foaming at the mouth. His eyes looked crazed. The whole audience was dead silent.

Rickon smirked. “Good boy.”

The audience erupted into thunderous applause, jumping to their feet and shouting King Rickon, King Rickon. Some threw black roses or jewelry. Someone threw a pink ribbon. Rickon picked it up and swiftly tied it around Shaggydog’s neck.

Rickon went back into the darkness behind the stage, patting Shaggydog between the ears and cooing at him. He passed Bran on his brother’s way to the stage but didn’t acknowledge him. He just slipped back into the Frey’s viewing box. Sebastian threw his arms around him and Corlisse ruffled his hair. Shaggydog nuzzled Rickon on the cheek.

_I’m winning this competition._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rickon’s the kind of person who can skateboard in high heels but still whines that he doesn’t have a Jeep Wrangler


	9. Robb III

Robb was tense. He stood behind the stage, peeking out from behind the curtains at Sansa. She was eating. He could tell everything was poisoned — all of it had been tainted and turned black. He was amazed as she chewed up a live scorpion’s tail without flinching. She ate until she had eaten about half of every dish, before slamming her hands down on the table and standing up, triumphant. The whole audience roared in approval as she exited the stage.

Now it was Robb’s turn.

His sibling’s performances had been astounding. First Rickon’s display of sadism with his direwolf. Then Bran had correctly predicted that an audience member would have a fatal seizure. Arya had deflected a whole battalion’s arrows and spears with a flick of her wrist and threw them into the crowd with the twitch of her foot. And then Sansa had eaten a whole feast of poisoned food.

Robb knew what he was doing, of course, he just wasn’t sure if he wanted to do it. He stepped onto the stage to thunderous applause. He carried a sword at his belt. He unsheathed it as the sound of the audience died down.

He held the sword in front of him and ran a hand over the blade. It curled up at his command. The hilt immediately fell off and the metal curled into a circle. The audience watched, dumbfounded, as some of the metal peeled up into spikes. Robb was silent the whole time.

At last the sculpture was finished and Robb placed it on his head.

The spiky crown fit perfectly and was icy cold. The audience began to applaud, and then finally shouting his name.

Robb could already taste his defeat as he exited the stage and stepped to the side to let Jon pass. His display of animating swords hadn’t been enough to gain support of the crowd or many suitors. He decided not to return to the Arryn’s box and instead watched Jon’s performance from the wings of the stage.

Jon’s performance was similar to Sansa’s — he had to eat a whole poisoned meal without getting sick. Robb watched as he took a bite of everything set in front of him before slamming his hands down on the table, signaling the end of his act. The crowd roared and applauded for him. Robb chewed his lip. They had most definitely not cheered for him that way.

Petyr Baelish — the man who oversaw the Ascension Year — stepped out onto the stage as some servants came out to carry the table and tainted food away. He cleared his throat for silence.

“Each of the kings and queens had magnificent performances of strength and agility,” he said. Robb didn’t like the sound of his voice. “I am proud to say that this generation’s Ascension Year has begun!”

The crowd erupted into cheers and the outdoor amphitheater reverberated with the stomping of feet and volume of voices. Above everything Robb thought he head a bird swooping by, but when he turned to look, he saw nothing.

When he turned back to the stage, Jon had a knife in his throat.

Robb screamed, but it was lost in those of the crowd. Jon stumbled and fell, still screaming, as blood pooled around his head. He grasped the knife and yanked it out of his neck, but with it just came more scarlet blood. His screams became gurgles as the life ebbed away from him.

“Jon!” A familiar voice screamed. Robb looked up to see Sansa tumble down from the Greyjoy’s box and rush over to Jon. She leaped onto the stage just as more wingbeats reverberated in Robb’s ears, and he looked around in confusion. This time he had the brain to look up.

He grabbed Sansa and yanked her out of the way as the dragon blasted the spot where she’d been a moment before with white-hot flames. Sansa pressed her back to him as they watched Jon’s unmoving body get eaten up by the fire.

It was one of Daenerys’s dragons.

Arya had killed Jon.

The Ascension Year had truly begun.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUCK THIS IS SO SHORT BUT THR NEXT ONE IS LONGER AND MAKES UP FOR IT I PROMISE


	10. Sansa III

Sansa pressed herself against Robb as the flames ate away at her brother’s body. Her bottom lip quivered. She felt Robb’s sturdy hands on her upper arms.

Most of the crowd had fled at the sight of the knife in Jon’s throat, the rest fleeing after the dragonfire. Now the only people in the arena were her, Robb, Petyr Baelish, and Rickon, along with the Freys and the Greyjoys.

Another joined them as Arya suddenly appeared through the smoke. She looked devilish, and she had her tiny little needle sword out and gleaming.

“He was easy,” she seethed. “Sending a knife through your pretty little white throat will be even easier.”

She flicked her wrist and a knife flew out of her pocket. Robb dragged her out of the way and the dagger hit the wooden beam behind them. Robb pushed her to the ground and drew his own sword. Sansa watched in amazement as the crown he had made for his presentation unfurled from its position and fashioned itself back into a blade. The hilt, which still lay nearby, zipped back to reattach itself to the bottom of the blade.

Arya dashed at Robb and he met her strike evenly with his dual swords. Sansa felt someone take her arms and bring her to her feet; she didn’t have to look to know it was Lord Baelish.

But then his weight was taken off of her and she fell down again. She looked up to see a huge black mass of fur shoot over her head and seize Lord Baelish by the arm. The older man yelled in pain and unsheathed a sharp, curving dagger and stabbed it three times into the direwolf’s shoulder. The wolf barely flinched before flinging Lord Baelish off the stage.

Sansa looked up at Rickon as he leapt up onto the stage. He strode past her and slowly unsheathed a long, zig-zagging white sword from his belt.

“Robb, look out!” Sansa screamed as he raised it. Alerted by her cry, Robb lashed out with his second sword and caught Rickon’s blade with his own. His arms trembled under the stress of both swords, before he heaved himself upwards and twisted his wrists around, rolling Arya and Rickon’s swords up and away from him. But almost as soon as he recovered they were on him again, with Rickon meeting every one of Robb’s blows and Arya dancing around him and jabbing every once and a while.

Sansa scrambled to her feet but a heavy black paw caught her skirt and tripped her. The massive direwolf put both of his front paws on Sansa’s back, trapping her down and forcing her to watch the battle with her chin digging into the wood of the stage.

Arya’s sword dragged across Robb’s ribs, cutting the fabric of his black tunic as well as the skin underneath. Robb clenched his teeth as he stumbled onto one knee, using both swords to deflect Rickon’s attacks. He was completely vulnerable to an attack from Arya. Rickon must be getting power and strength from the direwolf — there was no way the short, skinny thirteen-year-old was stronger than a war-gifted eighteen-year-old.

Sansa watched in horror as Arya grabbed Robb’s head by his hair and pulled his head back, exposing the pale skin of his throat. Sansa began to scream, thrashing and struggling against the direwolf, but she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Arya lifted her sword to drag it across Robb’s throat.

She was knocked out of the way by someone running, jumping, and kicking her straight on in the head.

Arya shrieked, stumbled, and fell, slapping a hand onto her face. Sansa felt her shoulders go weak with relief. It was Theon, in all his beautiful doofus glory, a heavy axe in his hand. Arya grabbed her sword and leapt to her feet, ready to meet Theon. Beside them, Robb pushed against Rickon and sent him staggering backwards. Sansa half expected a full legion of terrifying Ironborn soldiers to come tearing through the curtains, but she was disappointed. Yara must have left to help Balon get away.

“Shaggydog, to me,” Rickon muttered, and the direwolf loped off of Sansa, putting his weight on her back as he moved. Sansa shrieked as she heard several of her bones crack.

She heaved herself into a sitting position. She felt something against her waist, and looked down. Of course. How could she have forgotten?

She tugged the small velvet bag free of her skirts. It had been carefully hidden inside the folds. She always carried a small jug or two of poisonous berries, leaves, of mixtures she had concocted in case she was at an unpleasant dinner party. The one she had tonight worked perfectly in crowded situations like this.

She slid the tiny bottle out of the drawstring bag. The bottle itself was tiny — barely the size of her pinky finger. But inside was a special brew she had made herself in case the Quickening got messy.

Robb was fighting Rickon again, and Theon was easily taking on Arya. She would have to wait until Arya and Rickon were away from Robb and Theon.

Rickon staggered back from Robb after a hard blow that left a bleeding streak across his nose. Shaggydog darted behind him to break his fall. A moment later, Theon thrusted Arya in the same direction and she collided messily with Rickon, nearly sending both of them toppling over Shaggydog.

Sansa threw the bottle at their feet with all the strength left in her body. The jar smashed and the inky green liquid splattered everywhere. But it wasn’t the liquid that mattered. The sickly green gas floating up from it did.

Sansa clambered to her feet, her ribs shrieking in pain and grabbed Robb’s arm. “Run!” She shrieked. “If you breathe it in you’ll be stuck here too!”

Already Arya and Rickon were reacting to the poison. Arya was on the ground, shrieking as tears poured out of her eyes and her skin turned a horrible shade of sickly pale. Rickon seized his cape, wrapped it around his nose and mouth, before tearing a piece off and tying it around Shaggydog’s snout.

“Let’s go!” Robb shouted in her ear, tugging her away from her writhing siblings. She let herself be dragged away from the horrible scene by Robb and Theon. At some point she had stumbled and Theon had swept her up in his strong arms. She curled up against his chest but the jolting from his steps caused her head to loll backwards. The last thing she remembered was the world tipping sideways before she blacked out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow !!!! I really miss jackie !!!! but hey one down five 2 go !!!!


	11. Bran III

Bran twirled a strand of dark hair around his finger, pressing her lips tightly together. He couldn’t get the image of the ruined amphitheater out of his head. Half of it was scorched black and broken, and the other half had a splatter of something dark green and rusty red. Bran hadn’t stuck around long enough to see what they had come from.

The whole trip back to Greywater Watch, he asked himself one thing:  _could I have stopped what happened to Jon?_

He remembered the vision he had after the hunt — the vision that had predicted Jon’s death and Arya and Rickon attacking Robb and Sansa. According to several sources, Arya and the Targaryens had planned the attack on Jon in advance, and killing Robb, Sansa, Bran and Rickon was a sort of Plan B. He had heard the story of the battle from many different people. Some claimed that Rickon’s direwolf was killed in the scuffle. Some others said that Daenerys’s dragon returned and burned all of Sansa’s clothes off. Still others said that Arya had been killed by a deadly toxic gas.

Bran didn’t know what to believe. His visions had been quiet every since the Quickening presentation. He had gotten a grand total of one since they had left Winterfell, but it was an annoying vague kind. The kind that didn’t count.

He had barely left his room. They had been home for three days. Greywater Watch was floating farther south, so the weather was a bit warmer. Still, Bran wrapped the deerskin blanket tighter around himself.

“Hey, Bran?”

Bran looked up from staring at his pillow. Jojen stood in the doorway. He wasn’t dressed out to go into the swamps, but he wore one of his decorative crocodile-teeth necklaces. The one he wore when they had visitors.

“The rest of the suitors have arrived,” he said.

Bran looked back over at his pillow. “Do I have to go meet them?”

“No,” Jojen replied. “Just thought you might like to know.”

“What’re their names again?”

Jojen counted off his fingers. “Beth Cassel, Eddara Tallhart, Lyanna Mormont, Taryne Lynderly, Luciya Grafton, Sheran Lipps, Brannelle Blackwood, Neina Vypren—“

“Alright, alright, I get it,” Bran muttered, waving his mouth shut. “I don’t get why there’s so many.”

Jojen looked surprised. “There’s only about three from each reigon. So if you do the math — three from the North, three from the Crownlands, three from the Vale, three from the Riverlands, three from the Iron Islands, three from the Westerlands, three from the Reach, three from the Stormlands, and three from Dorne, you only have twenty-seven girls.”

Bran groaned and fell back on his bed, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “But why are there so many?” He protested. “I’m ugly!”

“No, you’re not!” Jojen said defensively. “You are very handsome.”

“And who told you that? Meera?”

“Meera doesn’t need to tell me anything.”

Bran groaned in reply. He’d have to meet every single one of those girls, learn their names, where they’re from, and keep up with the visions he knew would come.

“Do I have to meet them today?” Bran asked Jojen, staring up at the ceiling.

“I can tell my father you’re not feeling well,” Jojen mused. “Which appears to be the truth.”

“Thank you, Jojen,” Bran said as his friend exited the room. “Thanks for calling me pretty!”

His only response was Jojen laughing as he walked down the hall.

He lay in his bed fro a while, half-asleep, when he felt the familiar tingling sensation throughout his body that signaled a vision was about to overtake him. It felt like when your hand falls asleep and your blood feels like it has bubbles all in it. Bran lay back and let the tingling flow through his body, before his eyes rolled back into his head and his vision went dark.

When he opened his eyes, he was standing in a grassy clearing with a crystal-clear creek flowing through on one side. Four young children were there. Two girls sat by the creek, one of them brushing the others hair, and two boys were chasing each other around.

“You’re pulling my hair, Sansa!” The young girl getting her hair brushed protested. Bran realized that these were his siblings when they still lived at the Black Cottage. When they hadn’t known they were to kill each other.

Sansa shrugged. “I’m sorry, Arya,” she said. “You run around so much. Your hair is so tangled.”

“I tagged you!” Little Robb shrieked at little Jon. Jon huffed and kicked Robb in the leg. Robb tackled his brother and they began to wrestle in the cool grass.

“Can I go wrestle, too, Sansa?” Arya asked, twisting around to look at her sister with wide, excited eyes. Sansa sighed and let go of Arya’s long hair. “If you must. Your hair is hopeless anyway.”

Arya cheered and raced over to join in the tussle. Sansa sighed tragically and began brushing her own hair, gazing down into the water of the creek.

“Children!” A strong, older voice suddenly called. All four of them looked up as an older woman walked into the clearing. She had long red hair and deep crimson eyes. She smiled at them. “Come meet your baby brother.”

All four of them gasped in excitement as they raced ahead of the woman into the woods. The red-haired woman followed them briskly. Bran put it together that it must be Melisandre — the midwife that lived her whole life at the Black Cottage, helping the queens of the North give birth to their children.

Bran followed the younger versions of his siblings up the road to the Black Cottage. He managed to slip inside before Melisandre could close the door on him. He followed the sound of gentle voices into a side room.

Jon, Robb, Sansa and Arya were all clustered together at a woman’s bedside. The woman herself was pretty — she had smile wrinkles and kind blue eyes. Her auburn hair was tied up in a messy knot. She held a wriggling bundle of blankets, and the children were all cooing at it.

A man stood nearby, smiling widely. He had long, stringy brown hair and handsome face. Bran guessed that it was his father, King Ned. Judging by that, the woman in the bed was probably his queen-consort, Catelyn Tully.

“We’ve named him Brandon,” Catelyn said gently.

Oh. That’s me. Bran leaned closer to look at the baby form of him. The baby had his face screwed up and his nose looked like it had been squished up against a wall for an extended period of time.

 _I was an ugly baby,_  Bran thought bitterly.

“It’s an ugly baby,” Arya scoffed, crossing her arms. _Hey, that’s me you’re talking about!_ Bran thought, frowning.  _Jojen said I was pretty._

“Ah, be nice, Arya,” Ned said from behind her. “You looked just the same way when you were born.”

“No I did not!” Arya said defiantly. “I was a pretty baby. Sansa probably looked ugly.”

“I didn’t!” Sansa gasped. “Mother, tell Arya I was a pretty baby!”

“You were all pretty babies,” Catelyn said. “All babies look different after they’ve been born. Now go play outside.”

The siblings rushed out the door, still arguing about what they looked like as infants. Bran was about to follow them when he heard Ned say something.

“Is he the last one, Cat?” He said softly, placing a large, strong hand on Catelyn’s head. Catelyn cradled baby Bran. “No,” she said. “Please, let me have one more. I don’t want them to grow up, Ned.”

“Robb and Jon are already five,” Ned said. “Brandon was three years old when my mother and father left us. They’re too old.”

“They will have twelve more years to live out their lives before they turn eighteen.” Catelyn objected.

“But, Cat,” Ned said gently. “If we have another, it will only be thirteen years old when the Quickening happens. A thirteen year old against five other, much stronger kings and queens?”

“He might be the strongest,” Catelyn said defensively.

“I’ve never heard of a thirteen-year-old with powers stronger than that of an eighteen-year-old’s,” Ned said, crossing his arms. “And how will we know if he is the strongest? We’ll be leaving anyway.”

“Maybe we can stay until Robb and Jon turn eighteen,” Catelyn murmured. “Has a king or queen ever stayed in Winterfell long enough for their heir to turn eighteen?”

“If they have, I know not of it,” Ned said. “But I expect we’d be kicked off the continent before the Quickening.”

“How old were you and your siblings when you had your Quickening?” Catelyn asked.

“Brandon was eighteen,” Ned said. “I was seventeen. Lyanna was sixteen, and Benjen was fifteen.”

“Robb and Jon will be eighteen,” Catelyn pointed out. “Sansa will be seventeen, and Arya will be sixteen. They are old enough.”

“But if we have another—“ Ned began to say.

“Please, Ned,” Catelyn pleaded. “Just one more child. Then I promise we can leave.”

Ned picked up Catelyn’s hand and kissed it. “Whatever you say, my love.”

The scene fizzled out of existence and suddenly Bran’s sight returned. He was back in his room at the Watch, and Jojen was sitting on his bed, staring at him expectantly.

“So what’d you see this time?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please tell me what’d you’d like to see in this book!!! I know the ending and who wins, but I still need some cool stuff and battles and shit for the middle. 💝💖💕💘💞!!!!


	12. Rickon III

“You must be the dumbest king Westeros has ever had.”

Rickon shot Sebastian a look loaded with venom from the corner of his eye. He sat on a high table, his legs dangling, and Sebastian was standing nearby, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Who in their right mind would charge headfirst into a battle between three very angry family members?” The curly-haired lord hissed.

“Someone with the spine to do it,” Rickon spat back, tensing.

“Ah, my lord,” The maester tending to Rickon said in a warning voice. “Relax. I’m almost done with your medicine.” The old man was bent over a mortar and pestle, grinding something.

Sebastian bit the inside of his cheek. “You could have died,” He growled. “If you had stayed out if it Robb would’ve probably killed Arya, and that would be one less sibling to fight.”

“I’m not going to be the one sibling who doesn’t kill anyone,” Rickon hissed. “I’m not my uncle Benjen. I want to kill one of my siblings.”

Sebastian scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, my gods. You’re impossible, you know that? Impossible. Corlisse and I are the only ones brave enough to tell you when your head is getting too big for your body.”

“My head is a perfectly reasonable size, thank you very much.” Rickon hissed. The maester came over and began spreading whatever he had been mixing across Rickon’s bare back. The toxin Sansa had thrown at Arya and Rickon had brought a nasty fever and itchy skin along with it. Rickon had been sick all the way back from Winterfell, and could only be treated for the itchiness at the Twins. He sighed through his nose. Wherever the salve touched, the itchiness slowly faded away into cool numbness.

“The people always remember which sibling killed which,” Rickon pointed out. “They’ll always remember my Uncle Brandon killed my Uncle Benjen and that my father killed my Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Brandon. They’ll always remember that.”

“I didn’t remember that,” Sebastian said. “Hey, what happens if a king or queen only has one heir?”

“When they turn eighteen, they immediately become king or queen,” the maester tending to Rickon replied. “Rickon’s grandfather Rickard was an only child. He was King Crowned after his Quickening.”

“Lucky duck, then,” Rickon mumbled. “He was war-gifted, if I remember correctly.”

“There was a time when if an oracle was born, they would kill the other siblings,” the maester continued. “They believed oracles to be very sacred. If those rules were still in place, you and all your siblings except for King Bran would be dead.”

“That’s interesting,” Sebastian said. Rickon couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic. “When did that rule get made?”

The maester seemed to pause. “I believe it was with the Night’s King,” he said. “That’s what they called him. He had the sight, and they murdered his two sisters when he was born. However the gift drove him mad, and he massacred a large chunk of the North. After that they decided to have the rule that oracles must be drowned after they’re born.”

“But Bran’s still alive, and there’s been several oracle monarchs in recent history,” Sebastian pointed out. The maester shrugged. “I think after a while a soft-hearted queen changed the rule since she loved her baby so much.”

Rickon rolled his eyes and Sebastian frowned at him.

“If Sansa wins, no one will like her anyway,” Rickon grumbled. “She’s weak. Barely did anything to help Robb at the Quickening.”

“Kings and queens aren’t allowed to make allies out of each other,” Sebastian huffed. “Lord Baelish won’t allow it, surely?”

“Lord Baelish is in a comatose after your direwolf threw him off the stage,” The maester said accusingly. “He and his entourage followed Robb to the Vale for his recovery. Without him, the Ascension Year will have many bumps in it.”

“He oversaw my father’ Ascension Year when he was just a boy,” Rickon said. “He was barely older than him. He can do it even if he’s bedridden.”

“Lord Baelish or not, you have to win the crown to make up for your horrific performance concerning your siblings,” Sebastian said crossly. “You got beat. That’s never good. But by a poisoner, no less. Idiot.”

“I will, I will,” Rickon seethed. “I want to kill Sansa first.”

“But she’s the easiest,” Sebastian whined. “All she’ll try to do is chuck more potions at you. Go for Bran first.”

“Bran’s too unpredictable, right?” Rickon asked. “Just the place he’s in is nearly impossible to get to, unless you’re a crannogman. Greywater Watch moves. Plus, he’ll forsee us coming from a mile away and ambush us in the swamps.”

Sebastian pursed his lips. “It vexes me when you’re smarter than me,” He hissed.

“Love you, too,” Rickon mumbled under his breath as the maester handed Rickon back his shirt.

“You’re free to go, my lord,” he said. “Just be careful training and don’t wear anything too tight. Come back to see me if the itching comes back.”

“Thank you,” Rickon muttered as he slid off the table and followed Sebastian out into the hallway. Shaggydog was not outside; ever since the Quickening, Corlisse had demanded that the direwolf be locked up at all times and had a guard stationed at his kennel to send Rickon away if he ever came for the wolf.

“I haven’t seen Corlisse since we arrived back here,” Rickon said. “Have you?”

“Barely,” Sebastian mused. “She’s been looking out her window a lot, and drawing.”

“Weird. You think she fell in love at Winterfell?” Rickon asked, smiling. “Found a dashing young knight to run away with?”

Sebastian sniggered. “Probably smuggled him home in a trunk. And now he works out in the fields to be inconspicuous, and she spends the whole day mooning over him as he works.”

The burst out laughing as they turned a corner and ran directly into Sebastian’s sister.

She frowned down at him. “What are you two smiling about?” She asked.

“Nothing, Corlisse,” The boys chimed obediently. She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow but moved aside to let them pass. They hurried past her and burst out into frantic giggles as soon as she was out of earshot.

“She’s definitely in love,” Sebastian said. “She would’ve made another smart remark if she was feeling normal.”

“I saw her staring at the Arryn’s during the feast,” Rickon said. “Maybe she’s in love with Robin.”

Sebastian put a hand over his mouth to stop himself from snorting. “Gods, no,” he said. “Anyone but Robin Arryn.”

“My first order of business after becoming king,” Rickon said loudly. “Marry Corlisse to whoever she’s mooning over. Make her the happiest lady in the kingdoms.”

Sebastian grinned. “I can imagine your kids calling her ‘Auntie Corlisse.’”

Rickon shook his head. “Not auntie,” he said, smiling. “Grandma Corlisse.”

Sebastian giggled as Rickon pulled him out of the main hallway. “Let’s go get Shaggydog and cross the bridge over to the forest,” he said. “I’m bored.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rickon: I’m a bloodthirsty king who wants to kill all my siblings to rule the north for a very short time
> 
> Also Rickon: my dog uwu !!!!!!!!!


	13. Robb IV

“The Quickening was an...interesting event.”

Robb looked up from his lap to look at Lord Arryn. He was pacing in front of Robb, who was seated in front of him. Lord Arryn stopped to look at Robb. “And your protectiveness of your sister was...worrying.”

“Which one?” Robb mumbled, looking down at where he was fiddling with the hem of his tunic. He could practically hear Lord Arryn’s frown. “Queen Sansa. You pulled her out of the way of the dragon’s fire. We could have expelled two of your siblings there if you hadn’t moved to save her.”

“And then Arya and Rickon would have teamed up to kill me,” Robb said. “Then they would kill each other and Bran would be king.” He surprised himself. If he had not saved Sansa, could the Ascension Year be fulfilled in a night?

But Lord Arryn was shaking his head. “No, no, Queen Arya would kill King Rickon,” he explained. “Rickon was receiving strength from his direwolf. Arya’s allies would have come back, killed the direwolf, and while Rickon was moping over the thing’s bones she would have put an end to him. Then Arya and the Targaryens would have hunted King Bran to the swamps and burned the whole thing down with them inside it. Arya would be the Queen Crowned.”

Robb went back to unraveling his tunic. He didn’t reply.

“But,” Lord Arryn said, “your saving Sansa has given us an opportunity. House Greyjoy has offered to make a temporary alliance with us.”

Robb’s head shot up. “An alliance?” He echoed.

“The other High Houses mustn’t know about it,” Lord Arryn said briskly. “We aren’t supposed to have alliances. But since Lord Baelish is not waking anytime soon, we must take advantage of the time we have.”

“But alliances aren’t allowed,” Robb stammered. “Alliances have never been allowed. How will we keep it a secret?”

“We will say that we are going to the Iron Islands to kill Sansa,” Lord Arryn said. “Only if we run into anyone who questions us. The Iron Islands are very well fortified, and if any other king or queen tries to attack you will be protected.”

“But...why?” Robb said. “Sansa is my...enemy.”

“You two work well together,” Lord Arryn explained. “If you hadn’t worked together both you and Queen Sansa would be dead. I’m proud of you, Robb. You and Queen Sansa both.”

Robb could barely suppress the smile creeping across his face. “W-When do we leave?”

Lord Arryn’s mouth twitched slightly. “Tomorrow night. Go pack.”

Robb vaulted off his seat and ran down the drafty halls of the Eyrie, trying to withhold the shout of happiness inside him. He burst into his room, slammed the door shut, and raced over to his desk. He began to write furiously.

 

Dear Sansa,

 

I have to write quickly; I leave to see you tomorrow. Lord Arryn said that we’re joining House Greyjoy in an alliance! I feel like a child, I’m so happy. I can’t say I’m thrilled to meet your family there; Balon and Yara didn’t seem very nice at the Quickening. I can’t wait to hug you when we get off the ship. Sending well wishes (until I see you,)

King Robb Stark

 

Robb folded up the letter quickly and tied a black ribbon around it. Then he raced up to the rookery, passing the maester’s room, and emerged into the raven’s room. He found a sturdy-looking bird, tied the note to the raven’s leg, and slid the small paper with the destination into the bird’s beak. The raven squawked once and then took off, heading west.

Robb skipped back to his room, sitting down at his desk and puffing out a breath. He smiled. He was going to see Sansa.

He glanced at his desk. The pile of small papers he had for each seat was neat and tidy, stacked in a way where he could memorize what they were and take them out easily. He also had the stack of papers he had received from the Quickening — the names of seats like Pyke and Dragonstone and from suitors, in case he wanted to send death threats or requests of marriage.

His eyes skimmed the top paper of the Quickening stack — and his fingers, which had been drumming the desk, paused.

The paper for Pyke still sat obediently on the desk, its edge ruffled a little from the wind blowing in from the window.

Robb slowly looked up at the normal stack of papers. He remembered putting one of great importance on the top — because he had wanted to write a letter there right away. He remembered blushing as he set down the square of paper on the stack, knowing he’d need more of them.

The paper for the Twins was gone.

_I just sent a top-secret letter to Corlisse Frey._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SIS U REALLY FUCKED UP THIS TIME,,,,,DAMN,,,,,


	14. Sansa IV

Sansa bounced on her toes as the Arryn ships were anchored in the harbor. She could barely contain her excitement as a little boat came down from the biggest ship, carrying a dark-skinned man, a woman with red hair, a young boy, and a boy closer to Sansa’s age who wore a crown.

 _Robb_. Sansa’s heart skittered and she pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t smile.

“You’re fond of your brother, then,” Theon said. She could hear no jealousy in his voice. The curly-haired Greyjoy looked sideways at her and smiled. “Not very common with your type.”

Sansa smiled back. “I’ve heard stories about my father,” she said. “How he almost let my Aunt Lyanna go free. But he killed her only because he knew my Uncle Brandon would kill her worse if he didn’t.”

“‘Kill her worse,’” Theon repeated. “I don’t think there’s anything worse than dying, Sansa.”

“You know what I mean,” Sansa said, sighing. “My father was lucky.”

Theon hummed as the little boat came ashore and its inhabitants climbed out to climb the steep, rocky cliffs of Pyke to greet the Greyjoys. Lord Greyjoy was abed with a slight cold, so Theon was standing in as Lord of Pyke and the Iron Islands.

“Your lordship,” Theon greeted Lord Arryn politely, giving him a slight bow. “And your ladyship, and your smaller lordship.” Theon smiled at Robin, making the younger boy smile from behind his mother’s skirts.

“Your Highness,” Theon added, his voice becoming more serious as he bowed to Robb. Sansa followed suit by curtsying deeply, holding her skirts with thumb and forefinger. She looked up to see Robb and Theon shake hands, before Robb stepped around him and finally looked at Sansa. Sansa took a step forward and wrapped her arms around him, this time not able to withhold her smile. When she pulled away, she was alarmed to see that Robb was pale and looked shaken.

“What is it?” Sansa asked worriedly. “What’s happened? Is it the sea travel? You’ll get used to it, it’s always bad the first time—“

“Please keep your voice down,” Robb whispered, glancing back at Lord Arryn. He, Lady Lysa, and Robin were still talking. “Lord Arryn doesn’t know.”

“Doesn’t know what?” Sansa asked, dropping her voice to a murmur.

Robb looked at her in fear. “Did you ever receive a letter from me?”

Sansa shook her head, her long silver earrings batting her neck. “No. No one here received a letter, except Lord Arryn’s confirming the alliance and your arrival. What letter?”

“So it’s true.” Robb mumbled, going even paler. “Then I’ve made a grave mistake.”

“Robb, what has happened?” Sansa hissed, grabbing his arm. “You must tell me.”

Robb lifted his eyes. “I sent a letter telling of our alliance to Corlisse Frey.”

 

———

 

Sansa barely picked at her food during the welcoming feast for the Arryn delegation. She was seated next to Robb but didn’t speak to him. The seat next to her was occupied by Theon, but she didn’t want to talk to him either. All that occupied her imagination was images of the whole Frey army breaking down the doors of Pyke with Rickon and his massive direwolf at its head. She imagined her body on a stake, burned alongside Robb as the Freys dumped all the poisons she’d worked so hard to create into the harbor of Pyke. She shuddered and dropped her fork.

“Sansa, are you feeling well?” Theon asked. “You’ve been looking ill since the delegation arrived.”

On Sansa’s right she sensed Robb pause, as if unwilling to make any sound to muffle Sansa and Theon’s conversation. She cleared her throat and placed her napkin on her plate. “Just a little bellyache, is all,” Sansa managed, standing. “I’ll retire to my room until I am feeling better.”

“Would you like me to come with you?” Theon asked, standing as well. He saw straight through her lie, she knew. They had gotten out of countless boring dinners this way, with Sansa claiming illness and Theon offering to escort her back to her room. But this time Sansa shook her head.

“No thank you, Prince Theon,” she said. “I think I’ll be fine walking the halls of my own keep.”

She attempted to ignore the stricken look on both Robb and Theon’s faces as she hurried to exit the hall. As she walked out she bumped shoulders with someone else walking in. She looked up and got a fleeting glance of ice-colored eyes before the other person was gone, vanishing into the crowd of feasters.

The icy-eyed suitor. The one from the North — Ramsay Bolton. The war-gifted one.

Sansa swallowed hard and made her way quickly through the halls of the keep, swinging open the door of her room and then closing it quickly, locking it with a few jerks of her hand. She went over to her window and looked out at the harbor. A cold wind blew in, bringing a slight spray along with it, and Sansa sighed, reaching up and tugging the pins out of her hair. The ginger curls spilled down onto her shoulders, warming her neck. She tugged off her velvet gloves and tossed them onto her desk. She noticed that there was a raven perched on top of Sweetheart’s cage. There was a paper tied to its leg. No message was in the raven’s beak, saying where it had come from. Sansa went over and took the paper from the raven’s leg.

 

 

Sansa and Robb (or whoever has the misfortune of reading this),

 

You aren’t playing by the rules. If you can make alliances out of enemies, why can’t I?

 

P.S. you seem to forget how naturalists get their reputation for fishing. Do you recall that we can charm fish into our own nets? How much easier it will be with an elemental to drag the kill to shore after we’re done.

 

With love,

King Rickon Stark

 

 

Sansa whimpered and set the note down, letting her hair fall into her face. She was going to take Sweetheart out and teach her a new song, but now she didn’t feel like it at all. It had been Robb’s fault Rickon knew of the alliance, and now he was either on his way to the Iron Islands to kill them or on his way to Dragonstone to make an alliance with Arya and the Targaryens. Either way, Sansa and Robb were in grave danger.

A faint knock came at her door and Sansa sat down heavily in the desk chair, weighing her options. If it was Theon, she’d tell him what was going on. If it was Robb, she’d tell him about the second letter. If it was Yara or Balon or a servant...she’d just have to come up with a very good lie in the space of seven seconds.

“Come in,” she finally said, letting her forehead fall into her hand as she stared at the surface of the desk.

The door squeaked open and then closed again. Sansa looked up, forming a lie on her tongue, and then faltered.

The icy-eyed suitor — Ramsay Bolton, from the North — stood staring down at Sweetheart as the little canary twitched and fluttered her wings. She opened her beak and let out a sweet short melody.

“Lord Ramsay,” Sansa said quickly, standing up. He followed her with his eyes but didn’t move. He flicked his gaze back to Sweetheart.

“You’re not a naturalist,” he said quietly in a voice that gave Sansa chills. “And poisoners keep snakes for pets. Why a canary?”

Sansa wished she hadn’t tossed her gloves on the bed; her hands were covered in poison oak scars from her childhood. She tucked her hands into her skirts instead. “I found her in the woodlands one day,” she said. “Sweetheart was just a chick back then. She had fallen from her nest. I carried her back to Pyke and Theon helped me nurse her back to health. When I tried to let her go, she refused, so I keep her with me and teach her how to sing.”

Ramsay looked like he was close to smiling. “So you take pity on things in pain instead of going through with it?”

Sansa tilted her head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“Your canary probably went through more pain when you healed it than it would have if you had fed it poisons to put it out of its misery,” Ramsay said, putting a hand on the side of the wire cage. Sweetheart flew up to grasp the bars and peck at his hand. He still didn’t smile.

Sansa tugged uncomfortably at her skirt. “At least I saved her,” she said defensively. “Would you have killed it?”

To her surprise, Ramsay nodded even before she had finished speaking. “Of course,” he said. “I have no use for a canary. Except maybe to roast it and have it for a snack.”

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek. “Please step away from my canary.”

Ramsay took about a half step away from the table but kept his hand on the birdcage. “You’re making her unhappy by keeping her in the cage.”

“I’m not letting her go.” Sansa said. Her voice trembled. She felt tears burn in her eyes.

“Tears for a simple bird?” Ramsay asked, raising an eyebrow. Sansa could practically taste the mockery in his tone. “She must be quite the singer.”

“Please get out of my room.” Sansa whispered, tearing her eyes away from Ramsay and staring at the floor.

Ramsay took a slow, menacing step towards her. Sansa lightly touched her pocket and froze when she realized she carried no poisons with her. She glanced over at her nightstand. She had a mixture of poisonous rose water she washed her face with before bed — it could melt the eyes right out of the sockets of a normal person if it landed in them. But the bowl of it was too far away — making a run for it would likely get her killed.

“You’re not at powerful as the people say,” Ramsay murmured, sidling ever closer. “Your performance at the Quickening was impressive, but the public never saw you fight. For all I know, that food could have been untainted and Robb could have defeated Queen Arya and King Rickon by himself. He could have made up the story of that potion to protect you.”

“Please, leave me alone,” Sansa whispered, feeling a tear slide down her cheek. Ramsay set his calloused hands on her lithe arms and she squashed down a whimper.

“You’re not powerful enough,” he whispered in her ear. “You need someone to protect you. Prince Theon is too naive. King Robb is too caught up with this competition.” He placed a finger underneath Sansa’s chin and tilted her face up towards him. She was forced to stare at his periwinkle eyes.

“I will protect you, Queen Sansa,” he murmured. “I don’t care if you do not win the crown. But it would break my heart to see your body being cast off to sea alongside your brother’s.”

Ramsay removed his hand from underneath her chin and slid away from her. He ducked out of the room and Sansa released a gasping breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. She slumped to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. She could have died. What if Ramsay had decided to kill her? She would have had no protection whatsoever. She rubbed her hands together as she got her breaths under control. She would have to be ready next time. Surely her siblings would send assassins.

She’d be prepared next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rickon’s a big loser but I stan him he’s my favorite


	15. Bran IV

Bran gasped, his whole body shuddering. Sweat beaded at his forehead like rain. His eyelids fluttered as he tried to keep from falling into the vision.

Jojen and Lord Reed hovered over him worriedly. Meera was pacing by the door. Bran had been like this for three days already — feverish and passing in and out of consciousness as visions bombarded him.

“Fight it, Bran,” Jojen whispered, edging his pinky onto Bran’s. “Don’t let it pull you under. You’re stronger than it.”

Bran tasted blood in his mouth; he must have bit his cheek. He tried to take a shuddering breath. The visions had been overtaking him for three days — he’d wake only to find himself sicker and in more pain than before. His whole body ached, like he had tensed immensely in his sleep and woken up sore. The aching wasn’t even the worst part — it was the visions.

He cried out as another wave of throbbing passed through his head. Each time he woke up the headache just got worse. The maester of Greywater Watch gave him some herbs to try and ease the pain, but it seemed to wear off during each vision.

He gasped as a different pain entered his brain — like someone had seized it and was shaking it down to his eyeballs. He squeezed his eyes shut, gasping and digging his fingers into the sheets of his bed.

“He’s going to have another one,” Lord Reed said distantly. No, he was right in front of Bran.

“He’s fighting it,” Jojen insisted. “He’s getting better. He stayed awake for longer this time.”

“There’s nothing we can do,” Meera said. “Maybe it’s better to let him have the visions instead of fighting them.”

“Staying inside a vision for too long could lead to him going mad, Meera,” Jojen said persistently. “He could die.”

With that encouraging statement, Bran’s eyes rolled all the way back and the vision came.

His sight came back slowly, going from blurry to slightly less blurry slowly. He blinked, looking around at his surroundings. His head still throbbed in a dull way, and he attempted to ignore it.

He stood in a large, drafty hall, with large stone pillars and dim torches at regular intervals. It looked like an older, more ancient part of Winterfell. His previous visions had been about his father, uncles, and aunt before their Quickenings and Ascension Year had begun. But now it appeared he had fast-forwarded to the Quickening.

Three girls stood behind a pillar, peeking out from the side every now and then. Bran had learned over time the people in his visions couldn’t see him, so he walked over to hear what they were saying.

“Mother told me they’re going to come through this hall,” One of the girls was whispering. She was pretty, with sun-kissed skin and dark brown ringlets. She wore a circlet of beaten gold bands with a sun engraved in the front. Bran had seen this girl in several of his visions, always alongside his Aunt Lyanna — it was Elia Martell, the Princess of Dorne. Her wide, dark eyes scanned every cobblestone and pillar in the hallway.

“Staring at the floor won’t make them magically appear,” One of the other two girls objected. She was even prettier than Elia, with very long black hair and stunning violet eyes. She, too, had been in Bran’s visions — it was Lady Ashara Dayne, twin sister to the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne, who was a candidate for a King or Queensguard after the Ascension Year.

“I know that,” Elia whispered. “Lyanna, aren’t you excited? You get to see your brothers.”

The last girl did not respond. She seemed to be deep in thought. She was prettier than Elia but not as pretty as Ashara. She had sparrow-brown hair and eyes the color of cornflower. She wore the traditional black of a queen, but not a dress — she wore a long black wool tunic with black leather pants that hugged her body tightly. Her hair was pulled back into traditional Northern braids, with winter roses weaved in. It was Queen Lyanna Stark, Bran’s aunt. A beautiful elemental queen—rumored to be the strongest elemental in generations.

“I’m going to be killing them,” Lyanna whispered. “Why should I be excited to see them?”

Elia and Ashara exchanged a worried look.

“Shouldn’t you...not think about killing them right now?” Elia said hesitantly. “It’s two days until the Quickening. You should be focusing on your performance.”

“I’m going to be trying to massacring them in two days,” Lyanna replied. “Shouldn’t I be focusing on that, too? What does the Quickening even mean? Getting fans that will enjoy watching me die?”

“It’s a show of strength to intimidate your siblings,” Elia said. “If you’re powerful enough they might surrender.”

“There hasn’t been an Ascension Year where the siblings have surrendered in a hundred years,” Ashara objected. “Sacrificial Years are more common than that! Surrendering is a show of weakness.”

“Yes, but you get to live out your life in Essos.”

“Why would you want to go to Essos? Westeros is perfect.”

“For you, maybe,” Elia retorted. “People like a change in scenery.”

Ashara hugged her elbows. “I would never want to leave Westeros,” she said loyally. “My brother had to drag me all the way to Winterfell. I hate leaving Dorne.”

“That is true,” Elia agreed. “It’s much too cold up here. Lyanna, I wonder if you’ve—“

Elia paused as she looked around. Lyanna had disappeared while the girls were bickering. Even Bran hadn’t noticed that she left.

“Oh, great,” Elia hissed, stabbing her fingers through her thick, wavy hair. “Mother’s going to kill me.”

“We’ll find her,” Ashara assured her. “Winterfell is only so big.”

“Yes, but she grew up here!” Elia protested. “She probably knows all the best hiding places.”

“Let’s go have a look anyways,” Ashara said, grabbing Elia’s hand and pulling her out from behind the pillar.

“Wait.” Elia tugged Ashara back behind the pillar, pressing a finger to her lips. Ashara nodded understandingly as Lyanna’s brothers — the three kings — came into the hall along with their foster families.

Brandon — the eldest — paraded in front of the rest of them. He had been a crazy-powerful war-gifted king, one of the strongest in generations. He had been fostered by the Baratheons, but back then Robert had been a child Ned’s age and Lord Steffon had been the Lord of Storm’s End. His wife Lady Cassana walked beside him, wispy as a ghost. Seventeen-year old Robert Baratheon walked behind them along with his two younger brothers, Stannis and Renly.

Behind the Baratheons was the Arryn’s, who fostered Ned. Jon Arryn seemed like he didn’t age at all; he looked as ancient as ever. He had not married Lady Lysa yet, so he walked alone along with Ned, who looked small and jittery compared to his burly brother. All three brothers had been war-gifted.

Behind Jon Arryn and Ned was Bran’s Uncle Benjen, who was fifteen, along with the Greyjoys. Theon hadn’t been born yet, or he just was back on Pyke along with Yara. Lady Alannys wasn’t with him, either. Lord Balon had had two elder sons, Rodrik and Maron, walked behind Lord Greyjoy and Benjen. Benjen was short and skinny, with long black hair a big, dark eyes.

“Oh,” Elia said flatly. “I was expecting them to be more...exciting.”

Ashara didn’t reply. She was busy staring at Brandon, her violet eyes sparkling as she peered out from behind the pillar. Bran watched as Brandon swung his head around to meet Ashara’s gaze. They looked at each other for a moment before Brandon grinned, and Ashara ducked back behind the pillar, her face flushing a shade of berry that still looked beautiful.

“What?” Elia said, grabbing her arm. “What about them? Did you see one of them?” Elia gasped a little. “Are you in love?”

“No!” Ashara hissed, her face flushing a little more. “Just—King Brandon looked at me. That’s all.”

“You like him!” Elia said, giggling. “Ooh, if he wins, maybe you’ll be his queen-consort!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ashara said, laughing. “Yes, I’m a suitor, but I’m promised to King Eddard. Not Brandon. I’m Eddard’s age, but not as old as King Brandon.”

“Stiiiiiill,” Elia said in singsong. “There’s a story of a king who loved his brother’s suitor so much he chose her instead!”

Ashara giggled. “He’d never pick me anyways. His other suitors are probably all more beautiful than me.”

Bran tore his gaze away from the girls to look at the other pillars. he glanced behind him and froze.

Lyanna was behind the pillar to the left of Elia and Ashara’s, listening to their conversation with a forlorn expression. She peeled herself away from the pillar and stalked out of the hall.

Bran started to follow her, but a slow, throbbing pain slowly overtook his head. He began to panic. This always meant he’d be thrown back into the present. He grabbed a nearby pillar, as if expecting it to grab hold of him to keep him from being put back in his humid room in the Watch, but it was no use.

With a lurch in his stomach, Bran lost his sight and blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I really had no frickin idea what to do with Bran in these chapters while Robb, Sansa and Rickon go all willy-nilly so hey u get bonus robert’s rebellion characters!!!!! woohoo


	16. Rickon IV

Rickon picked at the splinter in his finger, puffing out an annoyed breath. The little sliver of wood had pricked his finger the day before, and he was trying to get it out before the skin healed over it. Splinters were so annoying. Once they got under your skin, they never came out.

“You got a splinter, too?” Sebastian asked. He sat across from Rickon on a barrel. Rickon nodded, and Sebastian sighed. “They should really smooth the rails on this thing.” He kicked the mast to make his point. “She barely seems seaworthy.”

They had been sailing for two days, down the river and now into open sea. The Iron Islands lay a day and a half’s journey west. After Corlisse had received Robb’s letter, she had sprung into action. She ordered Sebastian and Rickon to sail west to begin an invasion of the Iron Islands, and announced that she would be sailing to Dragonstone alone to forge an alliance with Arya and the Targaryens. The last they had heard was that she was at Maidenpool, waiting to board the ship that would deliver her to the island. If the alliance was secured, Daenerys would fly her dragons over the Neck and burn the whole thing, hopefully along with Bran and the Reeds. Meanwhile, Arya and Viserys would sail with Corlisse to secure the Iron Islands and kill Robb and Sansa. After that, Rickon had a plan of his own.

“I did not dress for wind,” Sebastian complained. “I was ready for rain and cold weather, yes, but not wind.”

“Ha-ha.” Rickon said it as a statement. “Winterfell was warmer than this.” He pulled his black cloak closer around himself.

“You think Sansa will open the gates for us?” Sebastian said, examining the splinter in his hand. “She seemed pretty sympathetic to everyone at the Quickening.”

“If I remember the stories about her, she wants us all to unite and divide the Kingdoms among ourselves,” Rickon said. “So she might. Robb probably won’t like it.”

“Robb will be hiding with his tail between his legs,” Sebastian announced loudly. “He’ll be so ashamed. He’s the reason we’re coming, anyways.”

“He might as well throw himself off the towers of Pyke,” Rickon added. “Sansa too, for that matter.”

The boards beneath their feet creaked as a group of people came up from the hold. Corlisse had insisted they take at least one of Rickon’s very few suitors with them on the ship, the Scorpion, in order for Rickon to get to know them. Rickon had chosen only one, and the richest one — Shireen Baratheon, daughter of Lord Stannis Baratheon, the younger brother of Robert Baratheon, Lord Paramount of Storm’s End. Her parents had chosen not to accompany their daughter on the journey.

Shireen was pretty enough — she had impossibly long, braided brown hair and sparkly dark brown eyes. Her cheeks still had plump baby fat and her wrists looked like if someone had put manacles on them, they would simply slip off. The only thing keeping her from being pretty was the greyscale growing on the left side of her face. It dragged down the side of her mouth and left her left iris such a light shade of brown that it was nearly white.

Rickon didn’t really enjoy the fact that Shireen was here. Corlisse had basically placed her life in his hands. If she died on the trip, it would be Rickon’s fault. She had been brought along to help Rickon and Sebastian out — she was a powerful fire elemental.

Shireen saw the boys sitting at the rail and walked over, her woolly gray dress swishing around her ankles. She bowed respectfully to Rickon.

“Your grace,” she said politely. “A day and a half’s journey to Blacktyde, if I am not mistaken?”

Rickon nodded without looking at her. “Yes, Lady Shireen,” he said curtly. “Have you ever been to the Iron Isles?”

“I can’t say I have, your grace,” she replied, leaning on the rail. “The Iron Islands are a backwards place, or so my father has told me. They have more than one wife and bastards can take lands. They have different gods than us. They had a rebellion against the mainland fifty years ago. It’s not a place I’d want to live.”

“And yet my sympathetic sister finds a home there,” Rickon murmured. Footsteps on the deck behind him made him turn.

The captain of the Scorpion — a man whose name escaped Rickon — came up behind him. “Your grace,” he said. “We’ve changed course. We’re now en route to Harlaw.”

“Harlaw?” Shireen exclaimed. “Harlaw’s nearly three times the size of Blacktyde. We haven’t the men and supplies to invade it.”

“Why the sudden change in course, captain?” Rickon asked, ignoring Shireen.

“Harlaw is much less populated than Blacktyde,” The captain explained. “It’s bigger, sure, but much less populous. Mostly used for sheep grazing and the like.”

Shireen opened her mouth to object, but Rickon silenced her with a glare. “Will Harlaw be easier to invade, then?” he asked.

The captain dipped his head. “Of course, sire. I’d never lead you wrong.”

“Then we must change our plans,” Rickon conceded. “Fetch me a map of the isles.”

The captain hurried away, and Shireen spoke. “Your grace, may I speak?” she asked. Her voice was tense.

“Of course, Lady Shireen.”

“Harlaw is the most populated island in the archipelago,” she said in a rush. “Your captain deceives you. His name is Rodrik Kenning — they’re bannermen to House Harlaw, who are fiercely loyal to the Greyjoys — Lord Balon’s wife was Alannys Harlaw. It’s a death sentence to go there.”

“You’re saying my captain is trying to deceive me?” Rickon challenged, but in his head, he was already calculating his next move.

“I would not lie to you, your grace,” Shireen said. “I have many books on the Iron Isles. All of them say the same thing about Harlaw.”

Rickon rubbed his cheek. “Very well, then. I’ll talk with Captain Kenning. We shall change our route.”

“Back to Blacktyde?” Sebastian asked, a little too hopefully.

Rickon grinned over his shoulder. “No. The complete opposite direction, actually — Pyke.”

 

——

 

Rickon, for once, relished the rain in his face as the Scorpion approached Pyke. The towering keep slowly appeared out of the fog, shrouded by rain. They were approaching from the back, a detour that took an extra half day. But the detour had proved successful — they sailed past Harlaw and, sure enough, houses and ports crowded the rocks. After seeing it for himself, Rickon and Sebastian commandeered the ship and sent the captain down into the small jail they had in the hold.

A raven had come from Corlisse on the second day after they changed course — she had successfully secured an alliance with Arya and the Targaryens and were headed towards the Iron Isles. Just one thing had gone wrong — Daenerys had refused to take her dragons to burn the Neck. “They are not dogs who can be ordered around,” she had said. Rickon didn’t mind. The more siblings he could kill by himself, the better.

Sebastian joined Rickon on the deck. “You ready to face your brother and sister?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Rickon replied, looking over at him. Shaggydog was dozing nearby, under the cover of a few barrels. Rickon was alive with adrenaline. He couldn’t wait to see the shock on his sibling’s faces as they stormed the gates.

“Once we take Pyke, the rest of the Isles will fall like clockwork,” Rickon said, more to himself than to Sebastian. “Then we can take the Greyjoys as prisoners and take care of Bran and the Reeds.”

“And after them?” Sebastian asked softly. “The Targaryens?”

Rickon smiled. “I have a plan for the Targaryens.”

Four other ships had joined them after they had passed Harlaw. Sent by Corlisse from the mainland, they carried about eight hundred Frey troops in all, enough to overrun and commandeer Pyke. Rickon glanced behind him at the ghostly ships trailing after the Scorpion.

“We’re approaching,” Sebastian said grimly, turning away from the rail and going back down under the deck. Rickon took one last look at the spectral towers of Pyke and followed him.

Sebastian joined Shireen where she stood over a map of the island. After saving Rickon from a massacre at Harlaw, she had earned his respect and was acting as his strategist. She looked up and curtsied as he entered.

“We’ve arrived,” She said. “I have a broad plan. You can fill in the gaps I’ve left.”

Rickon nodded. “Carry on.”

Shireen pointed at a small, jutting rock at the back of the island. “That’s where we will dock. It’s a dangerous port most times of the year, but for about two weeks two times a year it’s safe to dock there. It’s mostly forgotten about and rarely patrolled. We can climb up the rocks and distract the Greyjoys, Robb and Sansa while the rest of the fleet sails around the corner of the island and attack the ships at anchor in the bay. Then our soldiers will storm the front gates and take the castle.”

“Seems like a good enough plan,” Sebastian mused. “How will we distract them? Running around?”

“Whatever keeps them busy and away from the main gates,” Shireen replied. “The three of us are probably enough to do so. I have a map of the castle, too, so we won’t get lost.”

“We should have a rendezvous point to meet up if we loose the Greyjoys or get caught,” Rickon added. “The back docks, I guess?”

Shireen nodded. “The crew of the Scorpion should stay on board and keep the ship ready for takeoff. If the other ships get captured, it’s our only way out.”

Rickon nodded. “We should be docking now. Let’s light the place up.”

Fifteen minutes later Rickon, with Shaggydog, Sebastian, and Shireen scrambled up the slick rocks of the island, the rain making their vision blurry and causing their fingers to slip. Shaggydog bounded up several rocks at a time and then bent down to pick up the others by their cloaks and lift them up. Rickon wore a tight-fitted, shiny black tunic, agonizingly tight boots and a hooded cloak to keep the rain out of his face. Shireen and Sebastian wore gray cloaks and ponchos, shrouding their faces and hiding the weapons they carried.

Rickon finally heaved himself up behind a low cobblestone wall that circled a courtyard. Sebastian and Shireen followed close behind.

“Okay,” Rickon said, wiping rain out of his eyes. “Does everyone know the plan?”

Sebastian nodded. “Once we find them, run like hell.”

Rickon grinned. “Let’s do it.”

They vaulted over the wall — Shaggydog flexing on them by covering it in a single leap — and burst into the first door they saw, their footsteps silent yet muddy on the flagstones. Shaggydog was a silent, ebony blizzard, his thick muscles flexing underneath his furry coat as he ran. They saw no one as they ran, which Rickon tried to ignore. They ran up countless flights of staircases, heading towards the main hall of the keep.

Finally Shireen said they were nearing the hall, and they slowed, creeping up on the door. Arguing voices echoed down the hallway.

“We need to attack them before they get here,” a voice hissed. Rickon couldn’t identify it. “They could be on their way. He threatened us with an alliance of his own. He could be flying on a dragon as we speak!”

Rickon smiled as they fretted over him.

“It’ll take weeks for the Freys to get to the Isles,” a voice with a thicker accent countered. “By then we’ll have a plan.”

“But we need a plan now!” Another voice protested. Rickon tensed as he recognized Sansa’s plea. “The sooner we have one, the better.”

Sebastian gently touched Rickon’s arm, and Rickon nodded. Straightening, he tiptoed over to the closed door and put his hands on one. Shaggydog reared and placed his paws on the other one.

“On my count, boy,” Rickon whispered. “One—two—three!”

He put all his weight on the heavy wooden door and heaved. It swung open, groaning, and Rickon stumbled a tad.

He looked up into the hall. The occupants had turned to look with surprise at them. Everyone Rickon could possibly want was there — Lord Greyjoy, Theon, Yara, Robb, and Sansa were all clustered around the fireplace at the end of the room. Robb’s mouth fell open and Sansa shrieked.

A huge grin split Rickon’s face. “Surprise,” he shouted as Shaggydog roared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GODDAMMIT I LOVE RICKON SO FUCKING MUCH HES SUCH A DORK-


	17. Robb V

The sword was in Robb’s hand as he was running. He wasn’t sure how the sword got there or when he began to sprint, but he was doing it. Rickon was poised in the entrance of the room, smiling manically, with his monstrous direwolf at his side. Lord Frey was with him as well, along with one of the suitors that had been at the Quickening — Lady Shireen Baratheon, if Robb remembered right. A fire elemental.

Rickon raised his sword as Robb arrived — the two lengths of metal crashed into each other with a horrible sound. Rickon’s sword was in a zigzag shape, and so an opponent’s sword could easily get stuck in the grooves. Rickon shoved Robb’s sword aside and took off down the hallway, Shaggydog at his side. Lord Sebastian and Shireen scattered as well.

“Theon!” Robb roared. “Take Yara and follow Shireen! I’ll follow Rickon and the wolf.”

“What about Lord Frey?” Sansa shouted.

“We’ll find him later!” Robb yelled over his shoulder. “Stay with Lord Balon! Whatever you do, don’t follow us!’

Robb took off, following Rickon and the wolf’s muddy footsteps. He summoned another sword from a decoration on the wall, feeling more confident with two swords than one.

He followed them for a while, surprised Rickon didn’t get caught up in a dead end. He realized that Rickon must have studied a map of Pyke before he arrived. It was a planned attack.

Attack.

Robb suddenly stopped, digging his heels into the ground. He spun around and sprinted back the way he had come. Surely Rickon hadn’t come solely to play a game of tag in the drafty halls of Pyke. There was a bigger force going to the gates. Robb was sure of it.

He was nearing the main gates when an arrow flew past his head and imbedded itself in the tapestry Robb had just run past. He risked a glance behind him.

The wolf lunged, its jaws closing around Robb’s shoulder. Robb hacked at it with one of his swords, hissing in pain. The massive wolf shook him like a rag doll, and the swords fell from his hands. Robb grasped the wolf’s thick coat, trying in vain to drag it off.

Rickon approached slowly, the tip of his sword dragging on the cobbles and making a horrible scraping sound. Robb weakly summoned one of the swords into his hand, but he knew it would do him no good.

“Arya might be angry I’ve left her nothing to kill,” Rickon said with unhinged glee. “I’ll let her have Bran. You and Sansa are the real prize.”

Rickon reached and seized Robb’s neck, wrapping his spindly spider fingers around it, and squeezed. The air left Robb’s lungs as he began to choke on his own dry throat. His vision sparkled with black dots as he clawed feebly at both Rickon and the wolf. He was sure his evil brother would be the last thing he saw before he died before there was a distant yell, and Rickon’s weight was suddenly lifted off of him. The wolf yelped and let go of Robb’s shoulder. Robb gasped and rolled onto his stomach, clutching his shoulder and panting hard. Only until his vision cleared did he look up.

Sansa had Rickon by the neck, shaking him fiercely and yelling in his face. The wolf growled at her, but Sansa didn’t even glance at it. She slammed Rickon to the ground and brandished a sharp, serrated knife. The wolf yowled and lunged at her, but she just buried the knife in the wolf’s scruff and turned back to Rickon. The wolf yowled in pain and pawed at its face.

“How dare you threaten Robb?” She yelled in Rickon’s face. “That’s my job! If you want to hurt him, you go through me!”

Rickon looked like a cornered animal now. His dark blue eyes were wide and his face was pale. Sansa drew another serrated knife, but someone shouting from down the hall drew her attention away.

Robb looked up to see Sebastian Frey rush at Sansa in a whirlwind of blue cloaks and black skirts. He brought Sansa down to the ground and they rolled around for a long moment, kicking and clawing at each other. Rickon staggered to his feet, but Robb was on him in an instant, bowling him over and holding him down.

Sansa had managed to get herself away from Sebastian. He had yanked her hair out of its pretty updo and clawed her cheek, so a thin line of blood was slashed across her cheek. As Sebastian rose to his feet, she fished around in her pocket and slid something into her sleeve.

Sebastian rushed at her again and this time she was ready, catching his arms and wrestling him to the ground. They struggled for a moment before Sebastian suddenly screamed a terrible scream and yanked himself away from Sansa, clutching his face.

“Sebastian!” Rickon roared, suddenly pushing up against Robb with incredible force and causing Robb to loose his grip. Rickon surged free and dived for Sebastian before Sansa could get her hands on him again. Sebastian was covering his eyes with trembling hands, wailing and curling into a ball. The wolf bounded over, nosing at Sebastian. Rickon slung Sebastian over the beast’s back and it bounded off, with Sebastian clinging feebly to its back.

Robb rose to his feet, and the swords zipped back into his hands. Sansa also rose, the broken glass bottle leaving trails of blood in her hands.

Rickon took a few steps back. “This battle may have been lost,” he hissed. “But it won’t be the last.” With that ominous promise, he turned and flung himself out the window.

Robb ran over to look, but Sansa grabbed his arm. “Don’t,” she said. “That window’s just open air. He belongs to the sea now.”

Robb turned hesitantly away from the window. He heard a faint splash and closed his eyes. If Sansa was right, Rickon was dead. Killed when he hit the water. Despite Sansa’s warning, he took a peek out the window. He caught a glimpse of a limp black cloak floating in the waves before Sansa yanked him back inside.

“Come on,” she said. “Theon and Yara are still hunting the other one.”

Robb tugged his hand out of hers. “I’ll go after the wolf and Lord Frey. Go find Theon and Yara.”

Sansa nodded grimly. “Don’t dwell on Rickon’s death,” she murmured. “He’s had it coming.”

Robb looked at her. “I’m not dwelling,” Robb said. “I’m relishing.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok ok ik this is a shitty chapter ik and I wrote Rickon’s death in a super unrealistic way and it doesn’t sound plausible the way I wrote it, like it seems like ur reading and just oops he’s dead, and Sansa and Robb don’t react but i’ll try to fix it i swear


	18. Sansa V

Sansa hurried down the halls of Pyke. The whole keep was alive with activity now that everyone was aware of the Frey invasion. Soldiers yelled and rushed around in groups, and Sansa narrowly dodged them, trying to find Theon and Yara.

She found them in the feasting hall, and she ran inside just as Yara pounced on Shireen from behind. The girl’s hand were on fire, flames dancing around her fingers. She shrieked as Yara wrapped her arms around her neck and seized Yara’s arms. Yara gritted her teeth against the burns as Theon slammed the butt of his sword against Shireen’s head. She slumped to the ground, unconscious, and the flames fizzled out of existence.

Theon looked up at Sansa as she came over. He had burns on his face and his clothes were singed. “She put up a hell of a fight,” he grumbled. “Burned Yara bad.”

“It’s not that bad,” Yara grumbled as she dropped Shireen. Her arms told a different story — her sleeves were practically gone and her arms were an angry red.

“I have a salve for burns I can give you later,” Sansa said. “We cornered Rickon, the wolf, and Lord Frey. I blinded Sebastian with a poison, hopefully, but he got away with the wolf. Rickon threw himself out a window instead of surrendering.”

“So he’s dead?” Yara asked. She looked hopeful.

Sansa sighed. “Yes,” she murmured. “Let’s take Lady Shireen to your father so he can decide what to do with her.”

Theon frowned, but Sansa ignored it as she turned and walked out of the hall. Yara followed her, carrying Shireen. Theon didn’t follow.

Balon snapped at them to put her in the dungeons and not bother him. Yara agreed to do it and Balon ordered Sansa back into her chambers until the attack was over.

Sansa went back to her room, closing and locking the door, before collapsing on her bed, sighing. She rubbed her eyes. She didn’t notice the figure in the corner of the room before it was too late.

Whoever it was wrapped their hand around her torso and mouth, muting her. She screamed and flailed, trying to shake her attacker off. Their hands were wet and slick, and slipped across her face. She had used the last of her poisons on Sebastian. She had no defense.

Her attacker’s weight was lifted off of her and she stumbled forward, spinning around. A dark-cloaked figure wrestled the other one to the ground and, with a flash of silver, the first figure fell still.

Sansa’s breath trembled and she backed up a few steps as the cloaked figure rose to his feet. He flung back his hood and looked over at her.

She puffed out a breath and sat down on her bed as she recognized Ramsay. “God, you frightened me,” She muttered.

“You ran off into battle,” Ramsay said coldly. “Without me.”

“Well, what do you suggest I do?” Sansa asked accusingly. “Politely ask my attacker to stop so I can come get you?”

“Yes!” Ramsay shouted, clenching his fists. “I promised my father that you would choose me. He said I had to protect you from all harm because if I don’t marry you, House Bolton will die when I do.”

Sansa was silent. “I won’t marry you if you do things like this to win my favor,” she said quietly, gesturing at the dead Frey soldier on the floor.

Ramsay pursed his lips. “Then what do you suggest I do?” he said in the same tone.

Sansa picked at a loose thread in the blanket. “Just—don’t stalk me, first of all,” she said. “I don’t mind you protecting me. Just do it in a more humane way.”

Ramsay looked at the ground. “I don’t know any other way to protect you,” he said quietly, before turning and leaving.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY COW I WRITE RAMSAY REALLY BAD IN THIS STORY,,,,,  
> Usually my Ramsay writing is much much better i swear i’ve just not been in the mood lately lmao. In this book he just seems like a weird side character the author introduced for no reason and that’s partially true


	19. Bran V

“Surely there’s not this much food in the entire world,” Elia whispered to Ashara. “It seems like they pillaged every kingdom for the feast!”

Ashara didn’t reply, which Bran appreciated. So much was going on at the Quickening Feast that he couldn’t focus on one person at a time. This feast was so much more wild and rambunctious than his own. People were running around, throwing food and laughing. Bran was sitting beside Princess Elia and Lady Ashara, which was in the more passive quadrant of the hall, closer to the main table where the kings and queen sat.

So much had been happening in the real world, too. Between his bouts of visions, Jojen had told Bran what had happened. Rickon had attempted to invade Pyke with Frey troops, but failed when he was cornered by Robb and Sansa and threw himself out a window to his death. Lord Frey had disappeared off of Pyke, and no one had seen him since. Lady Shireen had been captured by the Greyjoys and a good majority of the Frey fleet was sunk.

Now it was only Robb, Sansa, Arya and Bran alive. There were rumors the Freys had made an alliance with the Targaryens before Rickon died, and even more rumors Lady Daenerys was flying to burn the Neck on her dragons. Bran really couldn’t do anything to help, since he was stuck in his visions most of the time.

Ashara seemed to be ignoring or not aware of Elia’s comment, because she hadn’t taken her eyes off of the head table for the entirety of the feast. She had returned to the table after all the suitors had been presented, and she had been promised to Ned. Though when she had bowed to them, she had stared at Brandon the whole time, and Brandon had stared back.

“Stop ogling at King Brandon,” Elia said, poking Ashara in the ribs. “You’re promised to King Eddard. Not him.”

“Sorry,” Ashara mumbled. “I’m—I’m not very hungry. I’m going to retire to our chambers, okay?”

Elia frowned, but didn’t stop Ashara. The Dayne girl got up and hurried out of the hall, and Bran wondered if he should follow her.

Up at the head table, Brandon rose and left his seat, exiting the hall as well, going in the same direction as Ashara. Bran caught a worried glance between Elia and Lyanna before they both got up and followed.

Bran hurried ahead of them to catch up to Ashara and Brandon. He searched for a while before he came upon them in the hallway. Brandon grabbed Ashara’s hand, and she spun, her violet eyes wide.

“K-King Brandon,” she stammered. “What can I do for you, your grace?”

“I saw you and Princess Elia looking at my brothers and I the day we arrived,” he said. He still clutched her hand. “I remember thinking I had never seen a more beautiful girl in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

Ashara’s cheeks turned a lovely shade of berry, and she bit her lip lightly. “Your grace, forgive me,” she said softly. “But I am promised to your brother.”

“Eddard doesn’t have to know about us,” Brandon murmured. He leaned in and kissed Ashara. Her violet eyes widened, but then she closed them and leaned in.

Bran glanced behind him. Lyanna and Elia were peeking around the corner, looking shocked. Bran went over as they disappeared behind the wall.

“That’s against the rules!” Elia hissed. “Ashara’s promised to Eddard.Ashara could be killed for that!”

“Well, we both know Ashara,” Lyanna whispered. “We can’t convince her otherwise. She’s as stubborn as a mule.”

“We have to keep it a secret,” Elia added. “If she knows, she’ll be upset. She’s too sensitive.”

“When Brandon has to choose one of his suitors, Ashara will be heartbroken,” Lyanna said sadly. “We need to keep them separate. The less they see of each other, the better.”

Bran glanced back at Ashara and Brandon. He was alarmed to see that they had disappeared.

“Where’d they go?” Elia hissed, seemingly reading Bran’s mind.

“Split up,” Lyanna insisted. “Whoever finds them has to get them apart quick.”

Elia bolted back down the hall and Lyanna went the other way. Bran weighed his options and went after Lyanna.

He followed her down multiple hallways before she paused outside of the room Elia and Ashara shared. She peeked inside, and Bran ducked underneath her to look as well.

Brandon had Ashara against the wall, his hands threaded in her hair and his lips against her neck. Ashara was giggling and carding her fingers through his curly brown hair. Bran was jostled as Lyanna stumbled over him and reached out with her hand. The window blew open and the cold winter air rushed into the room, ruffling silk dresses and making a mirror fall off a dressing table.

Ashara squeaked and wrestled herself away from Brandon. Brandon whirled to face Lyanna and yelled something at her, but his voice was getting far away. Bran realized he was being forced out of the flashback. But, strangely, the pain that came with it did not surface. He let himself be dragged into unconsciousness as the world faded.

When he opened his eyes again, he was in a completely different place.

Dark, damp walls surrounded him. A faint dripping was the only sound he could hear. Bran spun, trying to figure out where he was.

Behind him was a prison cell. A glowing doe was inside, curled up on the damp cobblestones, as if trying to keep herself warm. She was shivering.

Out of the shadows came a massive wolf, black and monstrous. Bran expected the beast to charge through the bars and devour the poor doe, but instead it slashed a hole in the bars, and the doe rose, bounding out of the cell and briefly touching noses with the beast. Then they ran down the hall and away from Bran.

Pain grabbed his head and he cried out, falling to his knees. The world pounded back into ebony and he fell against the cobblestones.

Bran sat up in bed abruptly, gasping. Jojen, who was sitting at the end of the bed, looked up, alarmed.

“What?” He asked. “What did you see?”

“He’s alive,” Bran panted. “Rickon’s alive. He’s going to kill us all.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this New Rickon inspired by the Katharine from the books? Yes.  
> Is he out for revenge? Hella.  
> Is he going to be even more crazy and power-hungry as Undead Katharine from the books? U BETTER BELIEVE IT-


End file.
